The Search of Truth
by TEOL
Summary: The Dark One sets Aran'gar and Osan'gar on the task of discovering who killed Asmodean. Can they unravel Randland's most mysterious mystery?
1. Returned to Serve

**The Search of Truth**

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Wheel of Time, I am not affiliated with Robert Jordan in any way, etc. And really, how could I be? If you think that Robert Jordan would write fics about his own stories on the net or, even less likely, tell anyone who killed Asmodean, please seek psychiatric help.

Chapter 1: Returned to Serve

_You? No! _

– _Asmodean_

Beyond the endless waste of the Blight, separated from the rest of the world by the Mountains of Dhoom, lies Shayol Ghul, the mountain where the Dark One is imprisoned, and has been since the moment of Creation. Three thousand years ago, the seal on his prison was broken, ending the Age of Legends and leading to the War of the Shadow. While he had been sealed back in, along with the thirteen Chosen who had sworn themselves over to him, the world had been left changed. Broken, and in more ways than one.

Perhaps, if anyone could judge the thoughts of the colossal entity that was incarcerated within the mountain, he could have been satisfied with this arrangement. Or perhaps not. Of the few who have ever stood in the Pit of Doom and heard the voice of the Dark One overawing them, saturating them with the agony and ecstasy that came with being in his presence, none have ever questioned him about such subjects. Doubtless, he is willing to wait.

Such thoughts occurred to the man who was examining himself in the mirror of the fine palace room he was in. They were drowned out by the disbelief written plainly across his face at what had happened to him. Here he was, alive again. He had had little time to savour his release from the endless sleep and nightmares when he was forced to suffer one even worse. The sleep of the dead. But he had served, and he had suffered, and he had been rewarded. Still, he could not hide his disbelief.

The face he would have to come to accept as his was somewhat plain, in its middle years and surrounded with thin hair. Not perfect; he expected it was the best of what could be found nearby, but it was better than the alternative, and he was grateful. He knew no other way of reacting to what the Great Lord had given him.

The gift did not end there, however. With his new body and his new life had come a new name, spoken into his head as he had reawakened by the voice he knew and dared not disobey. Osan'gar. The name of a dagger now ancient, used in duels and coated in a slow poison. It was only ever used as part of a pair, and now he suspected the same applied to him, though he was willing to serve the Great Lord so if that was what he intended.

Thinking on that, he turned to face his companion. The other half of the pair, Aran'gar, had been given the body of a gorgeous woman, slender and lush. The beautiful features of her oval shaped face were twisted into an expression of rage alongside the disbelief that she shared with Osan'gar. He smiled, slightly, turning away so she would not see. He supposed he could see why she was angry, but really, it was ungrateful of her. And he had to admit, it was a fine joke. It just probably wasn't a good idea to show her how funny he felt it was. He suspected she wouldn't appreciate it.

It was strange, that. He already was adjusting. But then, the woman before him was not the person he had once known. The person he had known in the Age of Legends, who had been there with him when they stirred from their long slumber, was gone. Now there was only Aran'gar, her previous identity burned away, the thread in the Pattern gone as surely as if balefire had touched it.

He shuddered, at that thought. He didn't like the thought of being balefired. Distracting himself, he wondered what had been happening while they had been gone. The boy who had killed him must still be troubling the rest of the Chosen, he reasoned; if not, the Great Lord likely would have no need of him, and would have left him as he was. Neither thought gave Osan'gar any more pleasure than the original one had, and he shuddered again.

He turned back to study himself in the mirror again, when he saw something blur in the corner of his eye, and whirled around to see who was there. He composed himself when he saw it was a Myrddraal. He was responsible for their creation after all, or so he supposed, even if he hadn't meant to. They were the throwback offspring of his real creations, and seeing them always made him somewhat uneasy.

This one in particular unnerved him more than most, though. For one thing, it was clearly head and shoulders taller than other Halfmen – he had to look up to see its dark, eyeless face, not that he had any desire to do so – but more than that, it seemed to carry itself differently to a normal Myrddraal. Clad entirely in black, with a deathly pale face like its fellows, it seemed to bore its gaze into both of them, although they were standing on opposite sides of the lavishly decorated room. Osan'gar shifted where he stood, and decided to think carefully before speaking.

In her rage, however, Aran'gar had no such compunctions. "What's happened to me?" she demanded of the Myrddraal, who stared back impassively. "Why am I in this body? Why?" She looked as if she was going to burst into tears, although Osan'gar doubted it. More likely, she wanted to take her anger out on someone. Osan'gar reached for _saidin_ just in case, and was shocked when he discovered that the True Source was not there. He felt paralysed, powerless; had he been given a body that couldn't channel? If he had, he might explode the way Aran'gar had. How did they expect him to serve if he could not embrace _saidin_?

The Myrddraal paid no attention to him, and turned to focus on Aran'gar instead. Osan'gar thought he saw a small smile on its lips, but dismissed the thought as unlikely. Myrddraal had no sense of humour, no compassion, no emotion. Besides which, he was clutching for _saidin_ now, desperately clawing at it, and still finding nothing.

"You were given the best bodies available," the Halfman told them. "If you are ungrateful for the gifts the Great Lord gives you, they can always be returned. Others can be found, who will serve faithfully, while our master finds another use for you." His eyeless gaze fell on Aran'gar, and Osan'gar saw her freeze up slightly with the fear that was characteristic of the Myrddraal's stare. "Perhaps you will be given to my brothers for their sport, if you cannot adjust to your new body. You may even have enough time to wish you had served faithfully before you are driven insane." Its mouth curled in a sneer.

Aran'gar half-screamed and moved slightly, but nothing happened. Osan'gar suspected she, too, had tried to touch the True Source, and failed. So it wasn't just him. That wasn't reassuring. Suddenly, his mind got over his panic and he realised with a start what Aran'gar would probably do. He reached forward to grab her, but it was too late. She had already thrown herself at the Myrddraal with a screech. It grabbed her by the throat and lifted her of her feet until she met its eyeless stare. She struggled to get the Myrddraal to release its grip, kicking out with her feet, but it paid her no mind, instead speaking calmly to Osan'gar, who watched on in horror. "You will not channel unless you are given permission to do so. And you will never strike me."

"Put her down," Osan'gar said quickly, once he found his voice. "Put her down now. Obey me! You're killing her!" It stared at him coldly, paying him more attention that it did the woman struggling in his grip.

Finally it put Aran'gar down, who stumbled slightly and fell back when released. Osan'gar went to help her up, and stepped back again when she snarled at him. He decided he didn't need her any angrier than she was already, and he was more concerned with what the Myrddraal had said. It knew that he couldn't channel. Surely it couldn't be responsible for it, though? He should know better than anyone else what they were capable of. Just what was going on?

The Myrddraal must have seen the confusion on his face, because Osan'gar thought it looked amused. "I serve none but the Great Lord of the Dark, and my commands are as his. You serve me as you serve him. I am Shaidar Haran."

Osan'gar could not help the wry smile that twitched on his lips. Shaidar Haran. In what the people of today called the Old Tongue – or so he thought; much had been forgotten during his two long sleeps, and made him uncertain about the simplest of things – it meant "Hand of the Dark". A Myrddraal being given a name in the Old Tongue, as he and the rest of the Chosen had. So the Great Lord now had a hand with which to hold his two new daggers. This thing surely was something apart from its 'brothers'.

Perhaps Shaidar Haran mistook the expression on his face. "You would do well to show me your respect," it rasped. Its voice sounded like sandpaper. "You stand before me now as you would before the Great Lord himself. I am his hand in this world, but I am also his eyes and his ears. He sees what I see, and hears what I hear. I obey no commands but his."

"I meant no offence," Osan'gar answered hastily. "I am sure it is known that I serve the Great Lord as loyally as any of the Chosen, else I would not have received this gift." He prostrated himself in front of the Myrddraal. He felt somewhat foolish – they were his creation, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they should be grovelling to him – but he wasn't in a position to argue. Evidently the Great Lord had changed a lot while Osan'gar had slept.

When he rose, Shaidar Haran was looking at Aran'gar expectantly. She had only just got back to her feet, holding her throat in pain. She glared angrily back at the Myrddraal, but copied Osan'gar and muttered some words about loyalty. Osan'gar mused to himself that she must be adapting well if she had already developed a woman's stubbornness. He heard almost a giggle in the back of his throat, and stamped it away quickly. He was _not _mad. He was a genius, not mad at all. His so-called superiors had refused to listen to his ideas, and his creations had taught them the lesson of their pride for millennia. If only they were easier to control.

Aran'gar was just getting up when Shaidar Haran continued, "Now that everything is clear to you, I will give you your instructions. While you were… gone, three of the Chosen were killed, placed outside the Great Lord's reach. Rahvin, killed in his pride. Be'lal, killed in his envy." Osan'gar grimaced. Only balefire could have prevented the Great Lord from giving them new flesh, as he had given them, but… This al'Thor must be even stronger than he had first thought. What did the Great Lord want them to do?

Aran'gar did not seem to care, though. She always had been impatient. "And the third?" she prompted petulantly.

Shaidar Haran's stare did not move. "The third was Asmodean," it said. "He was a traitor. The Great Lord has declared that he has died the final death. But the Great Lord does not know how he died. That is your job."

Osan'gar raised his eyebrows at this. Asmodean, a traitor? Well, he supposed it was not that unlikely given the right circumstances, but he would never have thought any of the Chosen would be foolish enough to try defying the Great Lord, especially not a coward like Asmodean. He was dead; well, that was no surprise. He had always been the weakest, and Osan'gar was more surprised he had lived as long as that. And they had to find out who had killed him. Confusing, but there was no point questioning it.

"How Asmodean died?" Aran'gar questioned. "If he was a traitor, I would have the Great Lord would be responsible for the death, not sending us to find out about it." Osan'gar buried his head in his hands. This was going to prove more difficult than he had thought, if she kept this up.

"The Chosen have proven more difficult to keep in line since their release," Shaidar Haran confessed, shrugging slightly. Osan'gar had never seen a Myrddraal be so conversational. "Several seem to be more concerned with their own schemes than with their oaths to the Great Lord. Ishamael managed to keep them in line, until he died too. I trust that you will not be so unreasonable?" Aran'gar and Osan'gar shook their heads. "Good. You have your instructions. You will be provided with as much information as is available. Now go, and do it. The Great Lord is putting a lot of faith in you. Hopefully you will be able to repay that faith, or else… well, I understand he would not want to waste two perfectly useful bodies." Its expression this time was an undeniable grin, twisted and cruel. "Good luck."

Osan'gar looked across at his partner as Shaidar Haran disappeared. "Well, I suppose we had better get started."


	2. The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 2: The Best Laid Plans

_You know my choices. I am clinging to that tuft of grass on the cliff's lip, praying for it to hold one more heartbeat. If you fail, I am worse than dead. _

– _Asmodean_

A frustrated Aran'gar paced up and down the room she shared with Osan'gar, cursing the Great Lord of the Dark and his bloody sense of humour. Osan'gar smiled mockingly every time he saw her. He tried to pretend that he wasn't laughing at her, but he didn't try very hard. He wasn't the sort to care that much if he offended someone else, unless he was afraid of them, and even Aran'gar had to admit that she probably wouldn't be able to defeat him in a battle with the Power; he was surprisingly strong at channelling, though his real skill lay in biology and genetics. The Trollocs were proof enough of that.

But Aran'gar knew that Osan'gar found the whole situation funny, while she didn't find it funny at all. Every day, it became harder and harder to remember what it had been like to have been a man. After only a week, it already felt like something that had happened to someone else that she had heard about or imagined. Enough memories had been lost when they had died. She wondered bitterly whether it would have been worse to remember exactly who she had always been, or being able to feel her identity slipping away every time she tried to remember something. And they found it funny. Well, it wasn't going any further. She had already made Osan'gar swear to keep their former Chosen names a secret, and he acquiesced, unwilling to make an enemy of her if the Great Lord was forcing them work together.

She remembered Osan'gar, at least, even as far back as the Age of Legends. They had worked together even then, although she had never liked the man. She had been in charge of breeding the humans for his horrible experiments, although sometimes she doubted he remembered. He had been all about himself them, but then, Aran'gar had been no different.

Then they had been sealed inside the Bore by Lews Therin Telamon, and his Hundred Companions (even after all this time, she couldn't repress a sneer) for a long time; Aran'gar was still not certain how long. They had been the last of those sealed, closest to the surface, for thousands of years of endless sleep. Aran'gar shivered at the memory of the nightmares they had endured, of emerging to find their bodies decayed. She had taken it worst; she had pledged herself to the Shadow in the hope of retaining her looks forever, and they had rotted away. It also meant that they had had the first chance to show the Dragon that the Chosen were not as dead as they had thought. That had been fun, until they were killed of course. They were certainly surprised to see the two of them alive and well, despite everything. Two of the Chosen, Aginor and Balthamel. Yes, Balthamel. Her eyes took on a reflecting look as she sat on the edge of her bed. Yes. That had been her name.

She suddenly became aware of her own thoughts, and mentally shook herself. His name. Balthamel had been _his _name. She was Aran'gar now, but she wouldn't forget who she had once been.

She was about to resume cursing the Great Lord, but decided against that and re-examined the room she was in to distract herself. It was a nice room, not as perfectly decorated as the room where she had first seen life again – wait. She realised she was getting drawn back in, and changed the mental subject. It was the best room in the inn. It wasn't difficult to get an extra bit of comfort when you knew the tricks the Chosen knew. Of course, if they were discovered as Darkfriends here in Kandor, they'd have a hard time fighting their way out. They were hard on the Shadow in the Borderlands, but they'd agreed they needed to stay near the Blight, in case they had to return quickly for whatever reason, and because their new bodies blended in better in the Borderlands.

She was about to curse herself for thinking about her new body again when the door opened and Osan'gar walked in. He chuckled to himself as if he had been privy to her thoughts, and stopped himself when he saw her expression. She scowled at him. "So, had any brilliant ideas yet? You're supposed to be the brains of the outfit."

"I have to have the brains since you've got the looks," he shot back, and grinned; he couldn't help it. He always prided himself on his sense of humour, and like most people who prided themselves on their sense of humour, he was the only one.

Aran'gar sniffed at him, and then wondered why she did it. It seemed to make sense at the time. "If you mock me again, I swear I'll tear your eyes out. I'm sick of you already! It's been ten days. Can we get on with what we're supposed to do already?"

"And why shouldn't I?" Osan'gar didn't even try to suppress the sneer on his face now. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? You just wanted to be beautiful. I don't remember everything that's happened since we were freed, but I remember you, _Balthamel_. Crying like a babe because your wonderful looks were ruined. Trying to hide it. Worried the women wouldn't want someone whose face had rotted away, huh?"

"Shut up," Aran'gar whispered. Osan'gar pretended not to hear.

"You only became one of the Chosen because you wanted to be immortal. To look good forever. But nothing lasts forever, except the strong. If you had studied like I did when we were alive, if you hadn't wasted your life dealing with lowlifes, and if you hadn't given in to your temper whenever you had a problem, then you would have known these things. But you didn't. And even when you did apply yourself, you only studied useless, impractical things. I once met a man called Eval Ramman who could have been brilliant. And now, there's just a pathetic wretch called Aran'gar who can think of nothing but her looks."

Aran'gar screamed. Her old name had been the last straw. "SHUT UP!" She hurled herself at Osan'gar, hands outstretched – and felt herself being picked up and held by weaves of _saidin_. She could sense his channelling, and see the weaves, but she could do nothing about them. She shrieked, partly out of frustration and partly out of fear. At least she hadn't been gagged.

"A neat trick, isn't it? Not my specialty, of course, but you pick things up if you have an enquiring turn of mind." Osan'gar leaned his face in close to hers. "You listen to me. I don't like you, I never have liked you, I probably never will like you, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual. I've just told you everything I think about you, and it doesn't matter whether you like it or not. As far as I'm concerned, we had better work together to get this job done, and then hopefully the Great Lord will reward me, preferably by making sure I never have to see you again. Are we clear?"

Aran'gar narrowed her eyes, but nodded stiffly, and landed back on her feet. It annoyed her no end, but he was right, for the time being at least – they had to do this, whether they liked it or not, so they might as well get it over with. She didn't have to like it, though, and she certainly didn't plan to forget some of those bits at the end.

"So, back to the plan. What do we know?" Osan'gar inquired as if nothing had happened.

Various bits of paper with roughly scribbled notes littered the table, where they had quickly written down the few scraps of information Shaidar Haran had allowed them to begin their investigation with. Aran'gar flicked through a couple of them before reaching the conclusion they both already knew. "We know where he was killed, and we know when he was killed. We know he was calling himself Jasin Natael, for whatever reason. That's about it."

"Are you sure that's everything? Did the Myrddraal give you anything else?" He still wouldn't refer to Shaidar Haran by its name, or any other Halfman for that matter.

Aran'gar sighed. "I've told you a dozen times, that's all we know. The rest we're going to have to work out ourselves."

Osan'gar didn't seem to hear her, despite having asked the question in the first place. A pensive look crossed his face. "I wonder why we were given this task? Why not one of the other Chosen? Surely they would have a better perspective on what happened that us. I mean, when it happened we were… you know. Indisposed."

"Precisely for that reason, then. We were the only ones who could not have killed Asmodean. All the other Chosen are suspects, but not us." She smiled, somewhat smugly. That would teach him to act as if he was more intelligent than her.

He shook his head as if waking up, and nodded. "That must be it, I suppose. Well, what's the plan then?"

She stared at him. "You said _you _had a plan."

"Well, I may have over exaggerated a little, I admit." He shuffled his feet, having the grace to look embarrassed. "I meant in a sort of general way. You know, think carefully and decide what we're going to do. That sort of plan."

"Well, here's what I suggest. With the amount of information we have right now, there's no way we can work this out, even if we sit here and think for a year, which is what it seems you plan to do. Knowing when and where he was killed isn't enough. Why was he in Caemlyn? Who else was there? We don't have enough information. We need to collect more." She frowned at herself. Obviously Osan'gar's taunts had made her more introspective, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

Osan'gar was eyeing her warily. "What are you suggesting? Do you want us to question the other Chosen? I'd rather not bother them, myself."

"No." She agreed with him on that much, at least. "Not yet, at least. But we have to find something more than what we have now. Besides, I thought you were the one who was trying to gather information." They had an unspoken consensus agreement that she wouldn't have to go anywhere unless absolutely necessary.

"Well, there's only so much relevant information I can find, this far from Caemlyn. And I thought you were the one who knows her way around taverns and criminals." Aran'gar looked dangerous, so he coughed and quickly continued, "Although I did hear one thing. I was asking to see if anyone had heard of this Jasin Natael, and one fellow, Cairhienin I'd say from his accent, said he'd heard of a Jasin Natael was the personal gleeman of the Dragon Reborn." He grimaced uncomfortably. "This Rand al'Thor."

Aran'gar's expression mirrored his own. They knew Rand al'Thor, alright. He was the one who had killed them at the Eye of the World after they had been freed from the Dark One's prison. Well, she hadn't actually fought him – her death had been caused during a battle of mutual destruction with the Green Man – but she still held him responsible, and viewed him with the same mixture of fear, hatred and need for revenge. Him and one other. A woman – Aran'gar didn't know her name – who had charged at Aginor, like a fool, and he – she – _Balthamel _had seized her, and held her. Aran'gar had replayed that moment a thousand times in her head since her return, and every time it was the same. One moment, savouring the touch of her flesh, hearing Aginor make some joke, before tossing her away to fight, and die. Yes, the woman was responsible. Aran'gar would enjoy tracking her down.

She regained her composure, trying not to show how much the memory of the Eye of the World threw her off. She didn't plan to give in to Osan'gar any more than she already had. "So, Asmodean was working with al'Thor. We already knew he was a traitor. It certainly sounds like something he'd go along with. Plenty of opportunities to sit around playing that bloody harp. But I doubt that's all he was doing."

"Then what else was he doing?"

"I don't know. Let's find out. Where is al'Thor now?"

"In Caemlyn, apparently." He started clasping his hands together, as if washing them. "You're not suggesting we go there, are you?"

She felt rather apprehensive herself, but there was no chance that she'd act put off now. Not after what he'd said. "How else do you suggest we find out what happened to Asmodean? Or what al'Thor's up to, for that matter. I am sure the one must lead to the other."

Osan'gar frowned. "You think al'Thor killed him, then? It's not like you to jump to conclusions. Although I can't say I disagree."

"Me neither, but I'm not jumping to any conclusions yet. But even if he didn't kill Asmodean, I do think that if al'Thor has some kind of plan, it involved Asmodean in some way, and that's as good a reason as any for someone else to kill him. Perhaps he was plotting to use Asmodean against another of the Chosen." She was surprised at the level of calm in her own voice.

"But what will we do when we get there?" Osan'gar persisted. "Go up to al'Thor and say, 'We're two of the Chosen, we were just passing and we wondered if you had seen our old friend Asmodean lately'?"

Aran'gar shook her head wearily. "Don't be foolish. You'll have to be far more subtle than that."

"Well, it's a foolish idea to start – what do you mean, 'you'? Aren't you going too?" Osan'gar regarded her uncertainly.

Aran'gar saw his expression and smiled faintly. "Of course not. You don't honestly think we'll get very far if we both chase the same clue together like bloodhounds that have lost their master, do you? No, I'll be elsewhere. Following other clues. That way, we'll cover more ground, don't you think?"

"What other clues?" Osan'gar sounded exasperated now. "I thought we just agreed that we didn't know any more than what we've already been over."

"Think about it, Osan'gar. If Rand al'Thor claims to be the Dragon Reborn, he must be able to channel. And if he can channel, those Aes Sedai must have some plan for him, or else they would have captured and severed him already before he went mad and started destroying things." Her voice took on a distinct note of satisfaction at that. After all, as Chosen, she and Osan'gar were protected from the taint on the True Source that drove _saidin _channelers insane, and it would certainly please them both if Rand al'Thor went the same way as Lews Therin Kinslayer. "So I thought that while you went to Caemlyn and had a look around there, I could go to Tar Valon and see what they had planned. After all, we need to know as much as we can about our primary suspect, don't we?" _And if I find out where that woman is while I'm there, then that's fine with me_, she added in the privacy of her own head.

Osan'gar swallowed, realising she wouldn't be talked out of this plan unless he could think of a better one, and she doubted he could. "Fine," he muttered. "I suppose you want us to leave immediately." It wasn't a question.

"Of course," she said sweetly, and opened a Gateway. Muttering to himself, he turned and opened one of his own.


	3. A Step Closer

Chapter 3: A Step Closer

_I command nothing save myself, and not always that. _

– _Asmodean_

Osan'gar stepped through the Gateway and closed it behind him, looking around warily to make sure he wasn't seen. There was no one in sight, though, and he was confident no one except al'Thor would have been able to sense it anyway without seeing him. He could see Caemlyn, a mile or so up on the horizon, and muttered under his breath. He had always hated exercise, much preferring to stay inside and research his experiments, and he would have Travelled right outside the gates if he'd had things his way. That woman had almost chewed his ear off when he had even suggested it, though. She was right, he supposed, but that didn't make him feel any better. Sighing heavily, he started towards the city on foot, wishing he'd been given time to bring a horse, no matter how poor a rider he was.

He was already deeply regretting everything he had said to Aran'gar earlier that day. Well, not all of it; he was willing to admit that he had enjoyed while it had lasted, and he had wanted to say it since he had awakened, some of it for _years_. But at the same time, it hadn't really been worth it in the long run. He couldn't afford to have her as his enemy, not if he wanted to get out of this mess the Great Lord and left him in with his new skin intact. It had been a foolish thing to do, and he'd have to keep his emotions under better control in future.

He approached the city, his thoughts focused on Aran'gar. He had never liked her – him – her, not even in the Age of Legends. Osan'gar had meant every word he had said, in fact; Balthamel _could _have been brilliant, perhaps one of the best historians of the Age – he didn't like such foolishly impractical subjects, but everyone had their niche – and he had thrown his life away as far as he could see it. Osan'gar often appreciated intelligence in others, even if he didn't actually like it, but he loathed seeing it get wasted. Instead, the man had become so wrapped up in his own vanity that he could see little else. Well, it had been a fine joke fate had played on him, and a finer one the Great Lord had done, and that was an end to it.

He realised that he had already reached Caemlyn. No surprise, really, as he had a habit of losing track of time when he was stuck in his own thoughts. The area just outside the city seemed to be as busy as the inside, some sort of farmer's market going on apparently; carts were still arriving from all directions, complete with various wares for sale. A number of peddlers had set up stalls around the sides, and the air was loud with the sound of them selling their goods. Osan'gar avoided them. It wasn't anything he cared for, and he had a job to do.

He had managed to quickly tire himself out, walking without thinking, and the weather did not help things. The air was so hot he hardly dared breathe it in for fear he would burn his lungs. Upon reaching the gates, he was stopped by two guards armed with spears. "Identify yourself," one of them barked sternly, a tall, well-built man who managed to hold his weapon in a manner that was both relaxed and yet somehow threatening.

Osan'gar stopped himself from shaking his head. He had expected some changes to the world after three thousand years, but what had happened to the Aiel never ceased to amuse and amaze him. "My name is Dashiva, Corlan Dashiva," he answered breathlessly. Aran'gar insisted that they should give away their names, despite the fact that likely no one would recognize them. Osan'gar felt like contradicting her out of spite, but he had to agree. As far as he was concerned, identity was a horse to be ridden like any other, until it breaks a leg. "I came here to Caemlyn to speak with the Dragon Reborn. I have urgent news for him."

The other Aiel chuckled as if he had made a joke, but the first glared and said, "Very well. Follow me. I will take you to the palace."

Caemlyn seemed filled with Aiel. Osan'gar could not fail to notice them as he passed, swarming the streets, seeming to match the number of native Andorans. He had heard the rumours of an army of them who followed al'Thor, of course, but even back when he had first lived it was rare to see so many of them in one place, and he had been led to believe that they had gone into hiding since then. But things change. This Rand al'Thor must be as powerful a ta'veren as they all say, he mused, as they reached the centre of the city. It was not a long journey, as the southern gate he had arrived through was closest to the palace, but enough to leave him in a thoughtful mood as he prepared to meet this man again, for the second time.

If he had thought the streets filled with Aiel, then there was nothing to describe the palace. Indeed, it seemed that there were only Aiel in the palace, and it was rare that he spotted a servant who had clearly been born in the city. There also seemed to be far more women inside the palace than there had been outside. He had heard that the Aiel had become fearsome warriors in three thousand years, and he wondered exactly what al'Thor planned to do with them all.

The door to the Dragon's quarters was guarded by another two Aiel women, their spears crossed over it. They both wore dusty brown clothes from head to toe, with similar coloured scarves hanging loosely around their necks. Clearly the clothing was intended to disguise them, though in the palace it just made them stand out more. Osan'gar idly wondered what palace camouflage would look like; perhaps a coat of every colour? Only fancloth would do it, he suspected.

It was while Osan'gar was in this train of thought that one of the Aielmen that he had been following spoke. "This man is called Dashiva Corlan Dashiva," the man said, waking Osan'gar out of his daydream and making his frown. "He wishes to see the _Car'a'carn_, Somara."

Somara, a tall woman with the red hair that all the Aiel seemed to have, grinned as she turned to Osan'gar. "Does he know you?" she asked.

"No," he said, "but I must see him. It is quite urgent." Not strictly true, of course, but if it got him in quicker, so much the better. He was dry washing his hands again, he realised, and sweating. Well, he could hardly be blamed for that last. It was _sweltering_.

"Very well," the other Aiel woman told him, stepping aside as Somara did the same. "You can go in, but if he decides it wasn't as urgent as you thought, you may wish you hadn't." They both chuckled as if a joke had been made again as Osan'gar entered. He was beginning to dislike those Aiel.

Inside, he found a room dominated by a huge throne made of exquisitely carved dragons. Lounging on it calmly was a tall, broad shouldered man with a mess of reddish hair and oddly grey eyes. In one hand he held a short spear that looked as if it had been cut in half, and he seemed to be discussing a plan over a map with two other men, though he seemed unconcerned. The man could only be Rand al'Thor, Osan'gar decided, but he didn't recognize the other two. One was wiry, but he looked quite agile, almost like a compressed spring; he wore a wide brimmed hat over short brown hair and carried a staff with a short blade on the end that Osan'gar recognized as an ashanderei with a small shock. He also wore a medallion around his neck in the shape of a fox head, and looked annoyed that he was even there. The other was a serious looking man with grey streaking his dark hair and a hooked nose, and looking by far the most focused of the three. He did not look up when Osan'gar approached, although the other two did.

Osan'gar bowed, and presented himself. "Greetings to my Lord Dragon," he said, and hated himself for it. "I am Corlan Dashiva, your humble servant." It was a good job that his face was pointing towards the floor, masking his expression, and fortunately he was able to compose himself as he rose.

Rand regarded him somewhat curiously. Then he said, "Can you channel?"

The question caught Osan'gar off guard. He froze inside, but maintained control of his face, if not his hands. "No, my Lord Dragon," he answered as steadily as he could manage. "Should I?"

Rand shrugged, and looked away. "I suppose not," he muttered. "I was just hoping someone might have come…" He trailed off into silence, and Osan'gar suddenly remembered hearing about the amnesty he had declared for all male channelers. Well, that explained the question, and it appeared he had given the right answer, for now.

He managed not to let out a breath of relief he hardly realised he had been holding, and tried to get back on track. "No, I came here because I would like to ask you some questions."

"What about?" Rand looked puzzled, and so did the thin man, although the third man was still studying the map intently and had hardly noticed that Osan'gar had arrived.

"A man who I believe was in your employ not long ago. A gleeman called Jasin Natael. Do you know him?" The unnecessary extra question had been carefully added, part of his plan that he had carefully weighed over on the way there, more to see if it had any effect than out of a certainty that it would. It seemed to, as Rand frowned and gave him a hard look.

"Mat, Bashere, leave me. We'll sort all that out later," said Rand, and when the man called Mat looked ready to protest, added, "I want to talk to this man, alright? Sammael can wait." Grumbling, the other two men left, although Bashere took the map with him.

When the door closed, Osan'gar casually said, "Sammael, eh? You seem to have made as many powerful enemies as the rumours say." His smile was weak, however; for all his talk, he still wanted nothing to do with al'Thor.

Rand rounded on him. "Who are you? Who sent you? Why are you here?" Osan'gar trembled slightly as he realised that the man had taken hold of _saidin_. If he tried to touch _saidin_ now, Rand would know he had lied and likely attack immediately; and, while Osan'gar was sure he would win easily, the Dark One's orders made it inconvenient, not to mention that it would attract the attention of the Aiel guards if the walls were blown to bits. He thought quickly.

"I am who I said I am, Corlan Dashiva. Who sent me is none of my business and none of yours, and I can't tell you because I do not know. And I am here for the reason I stated, to ask some questions regarding a man named Jasin Natael. I take it you do know him, then?"

Rand seemed to calm at his words; evidently he thought that 'Dashiva' did not know about Asmodean. "Well, there is very little I can tell you as to where he is now, I suspect. He ran from my service about three weeks ago, and I have not heard from him since."

Osan'gar looked at him oddly. Was he lying? "No, my Lord Dragon, he did not run away. He died. Here, in this very palace, I understand. He was murdered." Rand's face seemed overcome with surprise if not actual shock, so Osan'gar used the opportunity to keep talking. "Someone killed him in a corridor somewhere in this palace, and if my information is correct, it happened on the very night you believed him to have left. Did you not realise? Did you fail to notice that one of your servants had been killed? It seems you think little of those in your service."

Fortunately, Rand appeared not to notice the contempt in his voice. "Natael is dead?" he muttered, half to himself. "Really dead?" He looked at Osan'gar. "How do you know?"

"It's just what I've been told," Osan'gar said, truthfully enough after all; he hadn't seen Asmodean's body. "I don't see any reason to disbelieve it, though, given the circumstances. But I plan to find out who killed him and why, if you'll help me. Now then. When did you last see Natael?"

Rand seemed to be arguing with himself over something. Probably mad from the taint already, Osan'gar thought derisively; he always considered that proof of the Chosen's superiority over others. Finally the man said, "Yes, alright. I'll tell you what I know. I last saw him three weeks ago, on the same day that I liberated Andor from Lord Gaebril. I haven't seen him since then. Are you sure he's really dead?"

Ignoring the pointless question, Osan'gar asked, "Was this before or after you killed Rahvin?" and then he almost bit his tongue in half. He could tell from the way the man suddenly stared at him that he had lost his concentration and made a tactical error. He assumed that it wasn't common knowledge that Rahvin had been in control of Caemlyn, and the look on Rand's face was proof enough of that. Especially given the subject at hand, it wasn't a good idea to give anything away, especially regarding the other Chosen.

"After," Rand said, and then added, "How much do you know, exactly?"

He had to try and make sure he didn't look too nervous. Thinking quickly, he answered, "I have heard rumours. I take it that it was true, then?" The last thing he needed was for this conversation to turn to the subject of Asmodean rather than 'Jasin Natael'. If Rand took a risk and asked him straight out about it, he would be put on the spot; admitting he knew the truth could assist him, or it could make him attack right away. At the same time, if he lied the man might realise after that mistake with Rahvin, and that would make him attack. He rubbed his palms together anxiously; Demandred was the gambler, not him.

"Yes," Rand said finally, giving him a hard look. The man knew that he knew. Osan'gar could feel it. "I don't know where you heard that, but it is truth. I killed Rahvin, and a few hours later Natael was gone. But I didn't think you came here to talk about Rahvin."

Osan'gar nodded in agreement, and asked another question. "So, where exactly did you see him last?"

"By a fountain in the palace grounds."

"Can I see the spot?"

"Of course." At least Rand seemed more willing to cooperate now. He strode over to the door and opened it, telling one of the guards outside, "Master Dashiva and I are going down to the gardens," and then waited as the inevitable escort was arranged. Osan'gar looked at Rand curiously. He looked more put upon than happy that the Aiel were obeying him, despite his somewhat regal countenance. Certainly, Osan'gar wouldn't have complained if all those warriors were willing to serve him of their own free will, as the Aiel appeared to be.

It didn't take long to reach the spot Rand had meant, a fountain with ornamental fish that was the match of a half dozen others littered around the place. Osan'gar looked around, as if expecting to find a message from Asmodean telling them who did it. "Was anyone else here?" he asked.

"Mat, and Aviendha," Rand told him, and then pointed up to a high window in the palace. "I was up there. I looked out and saw them, and then turned away. I didn't see him after that."

"May I speak to them?"

"If they want to." Rand turned to one of the Aiel women, telling her to fetch the two he had just named.

Osan'gar continued to study the fountain, not really expecting to find anything important, but worried that he'd miss something if he wasn't thorough. With a sidelong look at Rand, he casually commented, "You don't seem particularly upset at learning that your gleeman is dead."

Rand looked at him sharply. "He wasn't exactly the best servant I could have hoped for," he answered. "I hope you aren't implying that I had anything to do with his death. I didn't even know he was dead until you told me."

"I was not implying that at all, my Lord Dragon," Osan'gar assured him. "I was inferring that, sir, from the fact that you didn't seem upset that he was dead. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, and I haven't ruled anything out yet either." Still, he had to admit that as much as he'd like to pin this on al'Thor, it didn't look like he had anything to do with it. He had seemed quite genuinely surprised to learn the news, which just increased Osan'gar's disdain for him; fancy not realising your own gleeman was dead!

Rand gave him a level look until an Aiel dressed in white arrived with two people. One, Mat, was the man who Osan'gar had seen earlier, the one with the wide brimmed hat. The other, who he assumed must be Aviendha, was an Aiel, tall for a woman, who glared at him as if he had done something to insult her personally, but he suspected she did that to everyone; she seemed the sort. Rand turned to them. "This man is Corlan Dashiva. He is here investigating the death of Jasin Natael… or so he tells me," he said, with a glance at Osan'gar. "He has some questions."

Osan'gar regarded them carefully. Mat's eyebrows went up when he heard the news, and he took a step back, but Aviendha just stared impassively. Osan'gar couldn't help noticing that Rand had repositioned himself so that Mat was between himself and the Aiel woman. "As far as I can make out so far, you two might have been the last people to see Natael alive, here, a few weeks ago. What do you remember?"

Mat looked from Osan'gar to Rand and back again. "Well, the three of us were resting here after the battle in the city. Natael was playing his harp, I think, although I wasn't really paying attention, and then he stopped suddenly and wandered off, muttering something about people being unappreciative. I think he went that way." He pointed towards the palace, and cleared his throat before continuing. "So… he's really dead, is he?" Osan'gar, who was tiring of the question, nodded. "Well, look, I wasn't really friends with him or anything, but… I mean, I didn't kill him," he added quickly, looking around worriedly, "but, well, we didn't really get along, but… Burn me, what I'm trying to say is, he was someone I knew, even if we weren't friends, and if there's anyway I can help find who killed him, I will." Rand shifted uncomfortably during this speech; evidently, he had kept Asmodean's existence a secret, even from his most trusted friends.

Osan'gar looked to Aviendha. "And you? What do you have to add?"

Aviendha gave him a long stare, and then said, "I saw him go that way. That's all I have to say."

Osan'gar gave her a suspicious look – had she known about Asmodean, or was she just being unfeeling? He wouldn't put it past her – but before he could say anything, Mat spoke up. "What do you want us to do, then?" The other two glared at him, but remained silent; apparently they had not planned to do anything.

Osan'gar quickly took charge of the situation. "If the last time anyone saw him was when he was heading to the palace, then chances are he was killed inside the palace. So I want the entire place searched. Every abandoned storeroom or cupboard where you could hide a body. I want one of you to get together a team of people to do it. Tell them to look for anything suspicious; I'd prefer it if we could find the corpse, but failing that, someone else important will be useful, like something that belonged to him. Tell them to keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. Will you do that?"

Rand nodded, and started giving instructions to a white haired, grizzled looking Aiel woman who had been standing behind him. Mat said, "We'll be happy to help in the search, won't we, Aviendha?" He grinned at the woman, who gave him a glare in return.

"Myself, I'll wait someone while the rest of you are looking. Otherwise, I'll be too difficult to reach should something be found," Osan'gar explained, "and I need to be on top of the investigation at all times."

This was how Osan'gar managed to spend the next half an hour sipping some rather nice melon punch and reading a fascinating discourse on the nature of Trollocs he had found in the Royal Library, which was almost totally incorrect. He was chuckling at a particular wildly inaccurate sentence when the door opened and a servant entered, saying, "Master Dashiva? You wished to be called as soon as something was found."

Five minutes later, he entered a storeroom on the ground floor of the palace. Already inside were several Aiel – they all looked similar to Osan'gar – and Rand, who looked at him wordlessly. In his hands, beautifully carved with dragons and inlaid with gold, was a harp.


	4. A Step Back

Chapter 4: A Step Back

Saidin_ can easily kill, if the body is exhausted. Or so I have heard. _

– _Asmodean_

Aran'gar confidently exited her Gateway, not even bothering to conceal it or invert the weave, despite being within the walls of Tar Valon. No one saw her, to be sure, and she knew that of the hundreds of Aes Sedai in the area, not one would have been able to detect her. She smiled as she thought of that, of her biggest advantage, even if it seemed like part of her curse at the time – even the most powerful Aes Sedai would assume she could not channel a spark, since they could not detect the _saidin_ she still wielded, even in her new form. Certainly useful; she could kill them all, and they still would not even suspect. Of course, she would not – could not – if she wished to find out about al'Thor, or Asmodean, and she could no more defy the Great Lord than she could fly.

Asmodean. She remembered the name, of course, and could even put a face to it, though such things were becoming more difficult, especially when she had such trouble putting a face to her own name. He had been one of the Chosen, of course, swearing to the Shadow as she had. As they all had. But that was all in the village tales they still told three thousand years later; she smiled at that, as well. Past that, she did remember a man, tall and handsome, a rather quiet, introverted man, although he often displayed the self-confidence that was characteristic of the Chosen.

She remembered him, though. She remembered his habit of playing his harp in a corner whenever the Chosen met; the man had hardly seemed happy except when immersed in music. It had always annoyed her, though. She had not been friends with Asmodean, really; there were few friends within the Chosen, for understandable reasons, and alliances between them rarely lasted. Asmodean in particular had never been close with any of them, except Lanfear possibly, and that was not exactly friendship as Aran'gar recalled it. For the most part he had been content to keep to himself, and allow others to make plans. When he did speak, it was often earnest talk of the endless Ages of music he would make when the Shadow was victorious, of how he would bring music to the world forever. A strange man.

Aran'gar took in her surroundings. A stable, apparently; part of an inn, as likely as not. Well, at least she had got close enough to avoid the guards Shaidar Haran had told her about. It should not be difficult to enter the Tower itself from where she was now. Quickly exiting past a startled man who had sworn the place was empty only a moment ago, she walked out into the street, drawing little attention to herself. Well, no more attention than usual; in fact, she drew every male eye within a ten-foot radius. She would have laughed if the memory of being her old self were not so fresh in her mind; as it was, she cursed instead. Doubtless it was part of the Great Lord's marvellous joke. Sniffing, she headed towards the White Tower.

So Asmodean was dead. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. After all, whatever else he had been, he _had_ been one of the Chosen, and if they were dying she did not plan to be next in line. On the other hand, one less Chosen meant one less to share power with when the Great Lord won Tarmon Gai'don, and certainly she couldn't say she cared enough about the man himself to be upset over his death. She doubted she could trust anyone save herself, and perhaps not even that. Perhaps Osan'gar least of all.

The square in front of the White Tower was filled with people, although they generally stayed away from the Tower itself; few wanted to associate too closely with Aes Sedai. Many of the people in this Age called Tar Valon the greatest city in the world, Aran'gar knew, and several of those in the square stopped to marvel at the massive towers and various other wonders of the city. Aran'gar herself regarded the Tower critically. She had been impressed by little she had seen in this Age, and Tar Valon was no exception. Unlike most of the rest of the Chosen, she was rarely surprised by the amount that had been lost since the time now known as the Age of Legends; it had been her field of expertise after all, back at M'Jinn. The city itself had been proof of her point. None of this could ever come close to what had come before, but it had been three thousand years.

Looking up at the massive steps that led into the Tower, she saw a woman climbing them with some trepidation, plainly nervous of what might be up there. Aran'gar almost laughed as she mounted the steps herself, confidently striding up them. She might have drawn even more attention to herself that way, but she did not care. What difference did it make? She had always preferred a more direct approach to problems, and scorned those who felt otherwise; she was not Moghedien, or Sammael. Or Asmodean either, now she came to think of it.

She reached the top before the other woman, striding right past her without so much as a glance, and headed inside. The rounded dome of the entry hall seemed far too large to be practical, and Aran'gar sneered again; these half-trained children hoped to match the likes of her with grandeur, overdoing it to the point of madness, and it still did not come close. She barely even noticed when one of the girls in white dresses came over to ask what it was she wanted, snapping her out of her thoughts and into reality.

"I'm here to see the Amyrlin Seat," she said, giving the girl a look that showed she would not be disobeyed. "I wish to ask her a question. It is my right."

The girl started to protest that the Amyrlin was busy, that she hadn't the time to see every woman who wished to, and Aran'gar sighed. From what Shaidar Haran told her, the current leader of the Aes Sedai was a fool who only heard what she wanted to hear. Aran'gar doubted this Elaida saw anyone who wished to see her, either, which she could understand, at least. Either way, she did not have time for this.

She quickly put together a complex weave of _saidin_ – again, without worrying that she would be noticed; none of the Aes Sedai could know, and even if they did, they still wouldn't believe – and directed it at the girl, who fell silent at once. For all intents and purposes, there was no difference, but Aran'gar could see the look in her eyes that showed what had happened, a look of love and devotion. Compulsion. She had a fair talent for it, not as strong as Graendal or Rahvin, of course, but enough.

"Take me to the Amyrlin, then," she half-whispered, careful not to be heard, trying to allay suspicion. She doubted even logic could get her out if someone being Compelled was noticed. No one did, however, and Aran'gar allowed herself to be led down the corridors. She had to admit that she hadn't actually thought this far ahead, and wondered what to do next as she followed.

The corridors were filled with Aes Sedai, as well as the ones who wore white, who Aran'gar assumed were not full Aes Sedai, though they all seemed so weak that it made little difference either way to her. She kept her eyes open, mostly pretending to be looking at the various decorations and ornate furnishings of the place, but really keeping an eye out for the woman she had thought of. It was only a secondary objective, of course, and she had even less information to go on than she did for the Asmodean investigation, but she had learnt that it often paid to pay attention to your surroundings.

As it was, though, only one woman caught her eye, although Aran'gar wasn't quite sure why. She had had time only to glance at her before she disappeared around a corner, seeing little more than a pair of blue eyes, and yet the face had seemed familiar to her somehow, even if the woman didn't notice her. She couldn't quite place her, and it bothered her as she reached the office of the Amyrlin Seat.

With a quick command to the girl to return to her room, she let go of the Compulsion weave; the girl started and left. Aran'gar's attention was focused on the woman who now stood in front of her, oblivious to what had transpired. The woman gave her a cold, calculating look as Aran'gar explained that she wished to see the Amyrlin Seat, and then was covered with a broad smile. "The Amyrlin cannot see you at the moment, I am afraid," she said, "but perhaps I can help you. I am Alviarin, Keeper of the Chronicles to the Amyrlin Seat."

Aran'gar's own smile mirrored the other woman's when she heard that name. Alviarin. The woman that Ishamael had left in charge of the Black Ajah, according to Shaidar Haran, and someone who would not be difficult to manipulate. "Please, Alviarin Sedai," she said with a fair amount of mock servitude. "I must go into the Amyrlin's office, it's extremely important."

Alviarin's look could only be called condescending. "I am very sorry, child," she said, somewhat impatiently. "She really is far too busy to see anyone right now. The Amyrlin Seat has many duties. She isn't even in her office-"

"Good." Seeing the woman had taken her seriously, she dropped her tone and glared at her. "That suits my purposes fine. Now let me into her office."

As Alviarin started to raise outraged protest at this, Aran'gar casually wove some flows of Air and directed them at her. Suddenly the Keeper was silenced, and her arms slammed to her sides; her face was a picture of shock. She had not seen any channelling, of course. If she was as intelligent as Shaidar Haran had claimed, she would soon work it out. "Now do you see?" Aran'gar whispered. "We serve the same master, you and I."

The gag released, Alviarin did her best to compose herself, although she could not keep the shock out of her eyes. "You are one of the Chosen?" she asked, and barely waited for Aran'gar's nod before continuing. "You could have… How did you… Who are…?" She paused, and bowed her head, although the rest of her was still held. "I live to serve you, Great Mistress. I will help you enter." Shaidar Haran had been right, it seemed.

Alviarin opened the door of the office and Aran'gar walked in. She quickly went over to the desk and started looking through the various papers that littered it. There didn't seem to be much of importance, though, just orders and reports about various things, mostly trivial. Perhaps Alviarin would be a better source of information. "What are Elaida's intentions regarding Rand al'Thor?" she demanded, not looking up.

"She means to capture him, I understand, and keep him here until Tarmon Gai'don, for his own protection and that of others. A plan as foolish as it is futile, Great Mistress." Alviarin might have been able to keep the sneer of her face, had she been trying. "Besides which, it is plain that she means for him to kneel and submit to her. She is a vain woman, Great Mistress, proud and arrogant, and somewhat out of touch with reality."

Aran'gar idly wondered what this vain, proud, arrogant woman would do if she heard Alviarin talk about her like that. There was one point she needed to clarify, though. "So she didn't want to kill al'Thor?" Alviarin shook her head. "And what about the Chosen? What does she plan to do about us?"

This time Alviarin would have laughed if she had not remembered who she was talking to in time. "None. She does not believe that any of the Chosen are free. She often says that they – you – are all still trapped in Shayol Ghul, and that those who say otherwise are trying to spread panic." Taking advantage of Aran'gar's incredulous silence, she added, "If I may ask, Great Mistress… which of the Chosen are you?"

Aran'gar frowned, and started to channel _saidin_ in anger – and then hesitated. It was a simple enough question, after all, and she hadn't finished yet; the woman's corpse would probably attract undue attention. Anyway, she knew that Osan'gar would be laughing at her if she lost her temper and ruined things, and she had had enough of him laughing at her. On the other hand, she certainly didn't plan to tell anyone of her… predicament… just yet. Or ever.

"I am called Aran'gar," she said finally, giving Alviarin a guarded look. "Once, I was known by a different name. Perhaps, if you serve loyally, you will learn what that name is. Someday." She looked down, and finished sorting through the reports. "Nothing useful, I would say. Is there anywhere else Elaida may be hiding something?"

Alviarin paused to think nervously, her former cool demeanour gone. "There is a place," she said eventually. "A room on this floor, where she goes sometimes. She thinks I don't see." A look of contempt passed across her face. "I don't think there is much in there, however. Just some _ter'angreal_ that she keeps hidden, for whatever reason. If she were hiding something important, though, I'd look there."

It sounded as good a place to look for information as any. "Take me there," she told the Keeper. Alviarin led Aran'gar back out of the study and down more winding corridors, past more Aes Sedai. This time, Aran'gar tried to see the other woman, the one she had seen before, but realised how suspicious she must have looked, staring at the face of everyone who passed; she didn't want to miss it this time.

She was still looking when Alviarin stopped. "In here."

Turning, Aran'gar saw a wall like any other wall in the corridors, but noticed the way it was set further in than the rest of the wall. Was that to make it easier to enter without being noticed? Only one way to find out. "Open it."

Alviarin shrugged. She seemed to have lost some of her meekness already, which was good, Aran'gar supposed. Snivelling wrecks were no use, and she did not need to be constantly worshipped; she was not Graendal. "I don't know how, Great Mistress," she admitted reluctantly.

Aran'gar sighed as she wove a Gateway with _saidin_. Giving the confused Alviarin a sickly smile, she said, "You can go now," and stepped through, chuckling. The woman was probably still trying to work out how she had done it.

The room she had stepped into was dark, but she could make out a little. It wasn't a large room, perhaps spacious enough for a small person to lie down comfortably, but no more than that. She thought she could see a small desk and chair in one corner, and there seemed to be various random objects littered around the place. The _ter'angreal _Alviarin had mentioned, no doubt; she would examine them to see if they were of use later. She headed for the desk, but knocked over something in the dim light. Cursing, she wove herself a light from _saidin_ and went to look through the desk when she heard a slight intake of breath behind her.

Whirling around, she instinctively fired a stream of balefire in the direction of the noise. A figure hurled itself out of the way. The missed attack had blown a hole through a wall and light flooded in, allowing Aran'gar to see more clearly; it was the woman she had seen earlier! She seemed ready to fight back, but Aran'gar had no intention of fighting in the tiny room. She wove herself a Skimming Gate and quickly stepped through, closing it only just in time to avoid getting burned by a ball of flame. Realising there was little left that she could do, Aran'gar headed back to Kandor, cursing the White Tower, Aes Sedai, the Dark One, Osan'gar and herself the whole way.

* * *

Mesaana pulled herself to her feet, staring at the space where the woman had just been. She had not sensed any of the woman's channelling, which was a somewhat disturbing thought. More importantly, she was sure the woman had recognized her. Who was she? How had she disguised her weaves? Did she reverse them? Was she using the True Power? Mesaana frowned. The woman, whoever she was, might as well have used _saidin _for all the difference it made. Lack of knowledge irritated Mesaana almost as much as a lack of logic. 

Absently she channelled a flow of the Power to fix the destroyed wall. It was not hard to find a stone the right size in the grounds below and lift it up to the room Mesaana had thought only Elaida, Alviarin and herself had known existed. She put an Illusion on the wall and inverted the weave so that Elaida would not notice it, but her mind was elsewhere. Who was she? What had she wanted?

Sighing, Mesaana realised there was only one logical course of action. She would question Alviarin and then meet up with the other Chosen to decide what to do about it. There were so few of them left now that she had no choice but to rely on those that remained; it still amazed her just how many had fallen in the short time since they had been freed. Aginor and Balthamel and Be'lal, Lanfear and Rahvin and Moghedien. And Asmodean too, of course. She supposed al'Thor was responsible, but that was only more reason to stick together. She had seen Demandred, Semirhage and Graendal little more than a week ago, but she was sure they would not mind another meeting when they heard what she had to say. Mesaana let herself out.


	5. Drawing the Daggers

**Chapter 5: Drawing the Daggers**

_When a woman says she will obey you, of her own will, it is time to sleep lightly and watch your back._

– _Asmodean_

"So this harp belonged to Natael, did it?" Osan'gar half mused, holding the thing in one hand and studying it. Rand nodded, but Osan'gar pretended not to notice. He could see Rand regarding him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his own eyes on the harp. It was rather unnecessarily lavish, but then, that was typical of the man. He was a man of few doubts; he disliked them intensely. "So, perhaps you believe me now. Jasin Natael was murdered in this very room."

It was the small, more or less abandoned storeroom that they were standing in. At least, so Osan'gar judged from the sheer amount of dust in there; he had got a servant to clean the place a bit before venturing inside to avoid a coughing fit. As it was, he had found little of use in there. It would have helped if he had known what he was looking for, but he had still hoped to find _something_. A bloodstained knife. A note saying 'It was al'Thor, signed Asmodean'. Anything.

Rand's glare changed to a look of puzzlement as he turned back to the problem at hand. "So why would Natael come into this room?" he wondered aloud. Neither man seemed to want to accept the other's assistance, yet both gave it freely. "I doubt anyone has been in here in a month."

"Convenient for the killer, don't you think?" Osan'gar spread his arms, encompassing the small room. It barely fit the two of them. "Perhaps that harp would never have been found if I hadn't come. At the least, there was likely no one around when the murderer struck. Maybe he was lured in here, or he may even have wandered in by accident. I don't expect he knew his way around the palace very well?"

"We only arrived that afternoon," said Rand, more as if he were stating a fact in passing than answering a question. Then he hesitated. "So what are you going to do, then? Have you found anything useful in here? Were you staring at that harp for any particular reason?"

"Well, no," Osan'gar admitted. He tilted his head to one side and started dry-washing his hands, too deep in thought to notice. "There doesn't seem to be a body. We must have searched the entire building by now. I don't think we're going to find anything else, so there isn't much else we can do except ask people what they know." He looked at Rand again. "So, what do you know?"

Rand glared at him again, clearly not liking what he was hearing; Osan'gar hadn't even tried to hide the slight accusation in his voice. "I already told you all I know. If you think I'm holding something back because I had something to do with this…" He embraced _saidin_, and Osan'gar swallowed.

"I meant, is there anything else at all that could be helpful? Anything you can remember?" He really tried not to sound pleading. "Was there anyone in particular who might have wanted to kill him? Anyone who might have had reason to want him dead? I need you to help me."

Rand gave him an odd look – perhaps not surprisingly, given the circumstances – and shook his head. "Natael was arrogant, and I doubt anyone liked him a great deal, but I don't think any of my party would have had reason enough to kill him."

Osan'gar looked at him wonderingly, and then remembered that he still hadn't named Asmodean. Of course no one would want to kill Jasin Natael, least of all the Forsaken – they wouldn't even know who he was, or consider him a threat of any kind. He wasn't sure whether Rand was trying to trick him or just confuse him, but either way, he was going to have to take a risk. Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. "Are you sure that no one else would have a reason to kill him? Maybe – someone left some sign – of some kind. Some sort of message. Were there other attacks?" There had to be something else!

The two men just eyed each other silently for a few moments. _He'll just tell me what I need to know. He wouldn't – surely he wouldn't – he would, wouldn't he. He bloody would. _He usually kept such language of his mind and his tongue, but he was proved right when Rand quietly said, "You knew he was Asmodean. Didn't you?"

Well, there was nothing for it now but to… try not to give a definite answer. "I may have had an inkling," he admitted nervously, hating himself. He still had not gotten over his blunder with Rahvin earlier. He peered at Rand nervously, trying to see the man's reaction without looking like he was, but he hadn't the skill of such things.

"How did you know?" Rand flew at him, seizing his collar and pressing him against the door. It was clearly a demand, not a question. "I only knew of two others who knew, and they're both dead. How did you find out?" Osan'gar's mouth worked, but no sound came out; his throat felt dry. He had never been so consciously aware that this man could kill him. "Who told you? Talk!"

Finally Osan'gar was able to speak, although it came out sounding strangled. "Just calm down, will you? I can hardly answer you with you half choking me!" As if realising for the first time what he was doing, Rand slowly released him. After a moment spent regaining his composure, Osan'gar continued. "As I already told you, I received a lot of information from my employer. That was part of it, in a way; a lot of it I had to work out myself." True enough, for sure. Shaidar Haran was not exactly helpful regarding anything they tried to do. "And as I told you, I don't know who is paying me, but I suppose that much gold will pay for that sort of secrecy. Now please, will you help me? Every time you snap at me like this, you set back my investigation another day. I assume you are as eager to get to the bottom of this as I am?" He almost wished Aran'gar was there; she could handle some situations better than he could, as he was willing to admit to himself. Everyone had different skills; no one could match his knowledge, especially not in this Age. And Aran'gar had already demonstrated that she was mastering some skills very unique to women, in Kandor. Changing mannerisms, indeed.

Rand was not sated by that, however. "Why did you hold this back before, then? If you had admitted that you knew about Asmodean before, you could have saved us both time and effort."

"Because I suspected that you would react like this. And I was right, apparently." He managed to suppress a sneer. It was well to show confidence, but he had already made the mistake of going too far with Aran'gar, and he would not make it again. "I need your help. I'm not going to say something that would bias you against me. Now, will you answer my questions or not?"

Rand scowled at him, but Osan'gar's words seemed to be getting through. Strange. They had sounded trite even in his own ears. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Did you have any reason to suspect that someone might have wanted Natael – Asmodean – dead?" Osan'gar repeated. "Were messages left, perhaps? Did it seem that someone was trying to kill him in particular, even for no reason?" There had to be something, surely.

Rand opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly, his head whipped around and he seemed to stare straight through a wall at something. Osan'gar paused, confused, until he sensed what he had been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice before; someone was channelling _saidin_ inside the palace! He was thankful for it, too, since al'Thor would have seen him sense it and realise that he could channel, which he probably wouldn't like given what he had just said. Before Osan'gar could say anything, the other man had thrown open the door and was striding out into the corridor in the direction of the channelling. Osan'gar let out a small yelp and hurriedly followed.

The weave had not been far away; a Travelling weave, Osan'gar thought, though he doubted al'Thor knew enough to recognise it. Rand turned a corner quickly – and almost ran into Aran'gar, who had just been rounding the corner herself. Osan'gar almost howled. "What are _you _doing here?"

Rand didn't appear to notice that Osan'gar had even followed. "Excuse me, but did you see a man standing here a moment ago?" Of course; he could not know that the woman standing in front of him could have anything to do with _saidin_.

Aran'gar fluttered her eyelashes in the most pathetic way, and when she spoke, she managed to sound sultry and faint at once; she must have been _practicing_. "Oh yes, I saw a man just along the corridor there. But he did something – I did not see what – and he seemed to just step into thin air, and disappear!" She looked ready to collapse right there and then, all without actually losing her balance or composure. "I've never seen anything like it, sir! Was that… a man channelling the Power?"

Osan'gar could not believe the man was actually falling for all this! On the other hand, all Rand gave for response was a grimace and a quick, "Yes," before turning away and giving out commands to the ubiquitous Aiel. Osan'gar went to follow, but stopped himself; it was pointless, now. He rounded on Aran'gar. "What did you do that for, you fool?" he snarled, giving her a piercing look. "I was just about to finally get something useful out of him!"

"I had to get in here somehow, and those savages at the door did not look very welcoming," she answered, looking unruffled. "Besides, I doubt you would have found anything constructive if he had just confessed. Myself, I have been talking to some… contacts… in Caemlyn that I was told about. They had some interesting information for me. And I have planned out our next course of action, too, though we will need the help of our – employer." She probably meant Shaidar Haran, which he liked even less than everything else she had said. She was intolerable, sometimes. "And I don't see how standing around here is helping. I'm leaving. Coming?"

Osan'gar quickly stepped forward to stop her from channelling again. "You _are _a fool. I won't be surprised if you get us killed before this is through. We'll leave by more conventional means first, and then you can tell me of this brilliant plan of yours."

Aran'gar smiled at him, invitingly, but he knew what to accept if he took the bait. "A wonderful idea, Osan'gar. Please, lead the way."

Mazrim Taim stepped out of the cupboard he had been using as a hiding place. It definitely appeared that he had picked the wrong day to scout this place out. Not that it was the first time he had ventured into the place, or the first time he had seen a strange encounter – he still remembered the other, of course; odd, to say the least, but not easy to forget – but he wanted to have the measure of this place before he set any of his other plans in motion.

He watched as the man and the woman left, still arguing. He had no idea how the woman had managed to channel _saidin_, and he didn't plan to waste his time investigating the impossible. He had far more immediate concerns, such as the fact that whatever it was, it had drawn attention back to him. Just when he thought he was safe, too. His temper flared, though the woman who had given him away had already disappeared around a corner. He couldn't use the Power, of course, but that wasn't a problem if he felt angry enough; his tall, powerfully built frame would easily be enough to deal with her or the man she was with.

He decided against it. Too risky. There was no way of telling if the woman would try whatever trick it was she had used in the first place. Taim had his own goals to work towards, and willing to use whatever means necessary to achieve them; he hadn't come straight to Caemlyn on a whim after escaping the Aes Sedai and Bashere's army. His chance of success had suffered setbacks as a result of the gamble he had taken today, but he would not be denied.

Taim saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and retreated back into the storeroom. Al'Thor was probably having the palace searched again, no matter how foolish or futile such an endeavour was, although he couldn't blame the man for not trusting that woman. After all, he had seen her step out of the Gateway in front of his very eyes. One to keep your wits about you when faced with, he suspected, and not to let your eye get drawn to. He would remember that if he met her again. Taim grimaced as he settled down to wait.


	6. Forsaken Clues

**Chapter 6: Forsaken Clues**

_Any of them would kill me on sight, now. If I was lucky._

_- Asmodean_

Demandred coolly studied the three women sitting in various different places around the room. He knew the place well, of course, but Shaidar Haran had given it a rather odd look on this occasion; the room was barren, with little more than a table and several chairs littered around for furniture. Graendal was stretched full length on a couch, it was true, but Demandred suspected that was her own doing. She rarely forewent any luxury or comfort if she could help it, regardless of circumstances.

Evidently she felt him watching her, for she looked up and gave him an alluring smile. He grimaced and looked away. He appreciated women as much as anyone, but he wished she wouldn't flaunt herself so. It was a weakness. Vice was the enemy, and he had beaten every habit out of himself a long time ago, except one. Besides, he doubted she would give him any of her more personal attentions; he was still ranked higher among the Chosen than her, after all.

Mesaana had placed herself next to the table, where she could control things more easily, Demandred supposed. Mesaana liked to be in charge of things, even if it meant hiding behind a figurehead; better that than to be the figurehead herself. She was part of the alliance Demandred had forged, but he doubted he could rely on her to do what was needed. As usual, she seemed completely lost in thought. He speculated, not for the first time, exactly what it was she was planning when she sat silently the way she did; the thought gave him a chill. He would not be foolish enough to underestimate her, or any of the others.

The third woman, Semirhage, sat calmly in one corner, not concerning herself with anything. Demandred did not think he had ever met someone so emotionless, in a serene way that seemed even more unnerving than the cold manner that the word 'emotionless' normally brought to mind. She didn't seem to care about anything save her pleasures. He could not remember ever seeing her upset, or angry either, except where Lanfear was concerned. He had known her a long time, and thought he could trust her above all the other Chosen put together, not that it meant much. She looked back at him indifferently, expressionless as ever.

Mesaana gave a start as Shaidar Haran strode in, jolted out of her abstraction. The Myrddraal was trailed by a man and a woman. Demandred recognized them as Osan'gar and Aran'gar, the two Chosen the Great Lord had brought back from the grave. Demandred rarely let such valuable information as that escape him for long. He still didn't know exactly what they had been up to in the week or so since he had learned of them, though, and he made sure to pay attention.

Shaidar Haran looked around, as if searching for something with its eyeless face. "Where is Sammael?" it rasped. It had an odd, discordant voice that put Demandred in mind of something rotting and crumbling, subtly different in some way to those of the other Halfmen.

Graendal answered. "He wouldn't come," she explained. She had already offered the same reason to the others, but Demandred was not so sure what to believe, himself. He couldn't think Sammael was foolish enough to disobey the summons from sheer contrariness. Could he have somehow known in advance what this was about? Sammael and Graendal played their own game, he was sure of it. Well, so had Lanfear and Asmodean, and Rahvin, too. It had brought them nothing. Such plans required trust, something the Chosen had little of, and he doubted Sammael and Graendal would even tell each other everything they needed to know.

Shaidar Haran grunted slightly in annoyance. That was another trait that marked it out. Every other Halfman Demandred had encountered remained impassive always, not unlike Semirhage, really. Shaidar Haran could be as well, when it wanted to, but it was capable of showing emotion, and often did. No other Myrddraal Demandred knew of possessed a sense of humour, yet Shaidar Haran did, as cold and cruel as the Halfman itself. Another reason to keep an eye open for it.

"He may come to regret that choice," it said, staring at everyone in the room with its chilling, eyeless gaze in turn. "My orders are as those of the Great Lord himself. Disobey them…" It did not need to continue. The Chosen knew full well what happened when they displeased the Great Lord of the Dark; Demandred had no doubt that Moghedien, too, would wish she had not stayed in hiding, as he was sure she was.

Shaidar Haran strode across to the other side of the room. Demandred's eyes followed the Myrddraal, but it was Aran'gar who next spoke. "We came here to question you, to see what you know of Asmodean's death." She looked about the room, clearly looking for the reactions of the others.

Demandred did the same, while processing the information himself. Mesaana seemed to pale slightly, and she sat back in her chair with an air of nervousness. Graendal, on the other hand, simply stretched into a more comfortable position, as if unconcerned, though her streith dress turned a light shade of blue; perhaps she did know something. Demandred looked at Semirhage, and again she looked straight back without any apparent interest. Her expression had not changed, but then, it rarely did. Demandred decided there was nothing to learn from her, and so he was surprised when she was the first to respond. "So he is dead, then?" she said, not looking at Aran'gar. "I half-thought he was still in hiding from the Great Lord."

"So the Great Lord has said," Osan'gar asserted, looking around apprehensively; the man had always been far too tense in such situations. He never would have been Chosen if not for his special skills. "We have been given the job of finding out who is responsible."

Aran'gar looked across at him standing by the doorway, then back at the rest of the room. "We think someone in here had something to do with it," she said softly, looking at each of the others. "We need to find out what you know." Her tone was not overly serious, however, and she showed it by making herself an unnecessarily lavish seat and relaxing on it.

Graendal sat up in her own place with a mock-affronted look, and then… giggled. "Such suspicion between the Chosen?" she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Why, it just won't do. We're like a family. If you really want to find out what happened to poor, dear Asmodean, you should be asking those who might know." Demandred stared at her. She thought this was a _joke_, with the Halfman standing right there. What did she and Sammael know?

"We are," Aran'gar shot back, eyes narrowing, but Demandred noticed that she looked to Osan'gar; likely he was truly in charge of whatever operation those two were running. Oh, the woman probably considered herself in control, and maybe she was in some respects, but Demandred would not have trusted such tasks to Aran'gar, and he did not expect the Great Lord would either. Osan'gar possibly was not much more reliable; it took a warped mind to create Trollocs and Myrddraal. In fact, the only person Demandred could think of competent enough to be useful for anything important was himself.

Osan'gar went to speak, but was interrupted by Shaidar Haran, who had already dominated the room. "I could have had each of you come here separately, and alone. The process would have taken much longer, and it would have been considerably more painful. Do not say the Great Lord never gives you anything." Now it was the Myrddraal's turn to smile, and Graendal's faded, replaced with a frown; whether it was one of anger or of concern, Demandred could not tell.

A silence fell over the room. Demandred considered taking the opportunity to interject his own thoughts, since he still had said nothing since Shaidar Haran's arrival and that could be construed as suspicious. Neither had Mesaana, for that matter, but that was hardly unusual. She was still sitting there, tapping her lip, her face the picture of introspection. Demandred decided to wait; his opportunity would come. None knew better than he when to take risks.

Osan'gar broke the calm, still clearly annoyed at being interrupted in the first place, but hardly likely to complain about it. He took on a lecturing tone and stance typical of the man. "We didn't come here to argue, Graendal. We came here to find out what you know. Each of you. None of you have been able to give satisfactory accounts of your whereabouts at the time of the murder; Sammael did, but that hardly counts for anything with him. Not that it matters. He is not here, and perhaps he will face punishment for that, but that is not my concern. I want to know where each of you were when Asmodean died, and what you were doing. If you comply it can help eliminate you as suspects from the investigation."

"And I just know how happy you will all be to have helped us," Aran'gar added with a laugh. "After all, we Chosen are just like a family, aren't we?" She reached across to Graendal and touched her shoulder, grinning. Graendal shook her head and jerked away as though bitten, glaring a hole through Aran'gar laughing face. There was a connection there, Demandred thought; when one was happy, the other wasn't. Had something eluded him? He didn't want to make the necessary decisions without all the facts, but sometimes you had to take a chance.

"I was in the White Tower the whole time. You all know I was. And I had no part of the games those fools were playing. You can't think I was involved in this." All eyes turned to Mesaana, who looked back at them with an air of defiance. "Well, it's the truth. I had my own affairs to arrange, and no time to join with _your _schemes." The last was directed at Graendal, whose frown deepened, but she said nothing. "If you ask me, they're the ones who should be bothering."

"That's somewhat inconvenient, don't you think, my dear Mesaana? Given the situations of Rahvin and Lanfear?" Osan'gar spoke quietly, but forcefully, making sure every word was heard without needing to raise his voice. "But what we still don't know is whether or not the rest of you were involved in Asmodean's death. That's why it came down to this. After all, you three were hardly forthcoming." Mesaana glowered at him. She had never liked Osan'gar, since the man had already achieved everything she had wanted, he supposed. As if another's superiority was a good reason to blind yourself to the truth!

Semirhage stood, towering over Osan'gar, a slight frown on her face. Perhaps that was due to the mention on Lanfear; Demandred knew how she hated the fact Lanfear had apparently escaped her. Demandred himself was holding his reservations open. She looked at Osan'gar, who took a step back. Semirhage did not need to make herself look fearsome in order to instil terror in anyone in possession of their wits. "Well, I have been far too busy with my own orders to worry about Asmodean, and you are keeping me from them. I have to work quite delicately, in difficult circumstances." Knowing the sort of delicate work Semirhage was used to, Demandred doubted even he wanted to know exactly what she meant.

She made as if to leave, but Shaidar Haran stood between her and the door. She stared impassively at it, showing no fear, to even Demandred's surprise. "I was not wrong, was I? Was I somehow incorrect?"

Shaidar Haran looked to Demandred, half ignoring Semirhage. "Where were you?" it said simply.

Now everyone looked at Demandred. He relaxed back into his chair, trying not to show the fear that was the defining characteristic of the Myrddraal's gaze. "I?" he answered, shrugging. "I was engaged in my own plans, as you well know. I spoke with the Great Lord not two weeks ago. He knows everything I know already."

Shaidar Haran barely seemed to be listening. It seemed eager to finish this meeting as quickly as possible, now. It looked at Graendal and repeated its question. Graendal fidgeted uncomfortably under the Myrddraal's stare, but said, "I was at my palace for the whole day that al'Thor killed Rahvin, waiting for a signal that never came, with my beautiful pets." She looked sad, as though wishing one of her pets were there to comfort her; Demandred's lip curled in distaste. "Sammael was in Illian, doing the same, I assume. If you want to know more, ask him yourself. I want no more part of this!" Her words came out in a rush, her cool veneer shattering suddenly. Her gown had turned scarlet. Why? Demandred felt like he knew less now than when he had arrived.

Shaidar Haran regarded her critically, and then each of the others in turn, save Osan'gar and Aran'gar. Osan'gar murmured, "I suppose we've found everything of use… for the moment. Perhaps when we know more, one of you will be more willing to talk." He surprised Demandred with his demeanour.

The others stood to leave, Demandred with them. He wanted to try puzzling this out, although it wasn't a very easy problem. Mesaana knew something, he thought, and possibly Graendal as well, but the sky would turn green before those two collaborated on a plan. Something terrible must have happened to Asmodean. Demandred cared little for that, but he did know that the Great Lord would probably be displeased with whoever had tried to hide this murder from him. If Demandred could solve this, perhaps he would be rewarded. Perhaps another of the Chosen would be dealt with. That would bring Demandred a step closer to becoming Nae'blis. Closer to meeting Lews Therin at Tarmon Gai'don. Closer to fulfilling his destiny.

* * *

"Well, that was a waste of time," Osan'gar commented once he and Aran'gar were alone. Shaidar Haran had left without a word after the others, leaving the two alone to plan their next move. Of course, they themselves were more concerned with bickering. "Have you got any more brilliant plans, then?"

"I have, as a matter of fact," she said, looking daggers at him but keeping her voice calm. "I didn't think this would work. It was, after all, your idea in the first place to ask everyone questions until we got some answers. That hasn't appeared to have done any good."

"And you have a better alternative, do you?" Osan'gar growled. He wasn't going to point out the obvious lie; she would just argue back with meaningless lines of reasoning until nothing made sense at all.

"Yes, I do. There are forces more powerful than intelligence and persuasion that we can make use of. That's what I suggest."

Osan'gar sighed. "Tell me what you have in mind," he said. He knew that no matter what this idea was, he'd end up going along with it anyway, one way or another – and Aran'gar knew it too.


	7. Melatonin

_A/N: Quick note, in response to SugoiByoshin's review. I will admit that, starting out, I had no idea how the story was going to finish, which, on reflection, was a pretty stupid thing to do. After some thought, though, I do have a theory, which I think must be correct, as I am sure I have the next best thing to evidence that proves it. There are clues all over the place; most are red herrings, but I'll get around to revealing the answer pretty soon. The 'gars are closing in…_

**Chapter 7: Melatonin**

_She still wouldn't suspect. How could anyone suspect? I do not entirely believe the situation myself._

– _Asmodean_

Quietly, Osan'gar stepped through the Gateway and closed it behind him as Aran'gar peered around the dim room. She never seemed to worry at all about being noticed, he had noticed, and he would not shed a tear if she got herself killed because of her lack of caution. As far as he saw it, only fools rushed in before seeing what was inside, although he had to admit that the chances of either of them being discovered here were very low.

It was midnight, and there was no light to be had from the new moon. Aran'gar had made a weave of _saidin _that shone a small amount of light around the room, which they had agreed beforehand would be all they would need. Now its pale light faintly illuminated the face of a girl, not past twenty Osan'gar would say had he been any judge, and beautiful too by the same token, with long dark hair lying across her face. She did nothing to move it, however; she was fast asleep. Osan'gar was absolutely certain of that fact. He had seen to it himself.

Once again, doubts about this idea assailed, more powerfully now they were actually there and about to do it. "Are you sure this will work?" he whispered, having asked the question half a dozen times already, having received the same answer each time, and knowing he would get the same answer this time as well.

"Of course," Aran'gar answered on cue, keeping her voice as low as his had been. Perhaps she was not as incautious as Osan'gar had thought. "After all, it's me. Don't you trust me?" She took the time to look back at him and smile the same slightly sickly grin she had done every other time he'd asked before leaning over the girl's bed, treading softly. She slowly waved a hand over the sleeping woman's face, then pulled up an eyelid with one thumb and peered into a vacant eye. Osan'gar almost had a heart attack, staggering around, trying to choke without making a sound, but Aran'gar failed to notice. She briskly removed her hand and stepped back, turning to him. "What did you do to her, anyway?"

Osan'gar found himself unable to speak. With some effort he managed to mumble, "Do you have any idea how stupid what you just did was?"

Aran'gar's eyes narrowed. "No," she said contemptuously, though she managed to keep her voice low. "And I don't care. Answer my question, then. What did you give to that girl?"

Giving up on outrage, he sighed and looked at the supine figure. "Melatonin," he said, thinking how nice it had been to be able to use his knowledge of biology in this Age for once. "It's naturally produced in the brain, to regulate sleep cycles. Once taken, it usually puts the subject to sleep quickly and in a manner with so few side effects that the subject might not even realise they were drugged at all. And, it is said to increase the vividness and clarity of dreams… though there isn't any real scientific evidence to support that," he added quickly. He disliked passing theory off as fact, even when he believed it. Or when he was relying on it, as he was now.

Aran'gar seemed more concerned with issues other than the finer points of scientific research, though. She looked at the girl and then back at him, a hint of nervousness in her eyes. "Are we sure this girl can really Dream? I'd thought that Talent was all but dead in this Age."

Osan'gar spread his hands in a gesture of helpless resignation. "This was your idea," he reminded her. "We don't have any choice but to trust Shaidar Haran here."

Her lip curled, showing what she thought of that, but he was right; the plan relied entirely on what the Myrddraal had told them. How it knew was anyone's guess, but then, it seemed to know everything, and who knew how it found anything out? The thought didn't make him any more confident. He felt himself dry-washing his hands again and made them stop. He didn't need any other distractions on top of what was already there.

He looked to Aran'gar. "Let's get on with it," he said, trying to sound brisk in the near silence. He realised how loud his voice sounded and paused; the only sound to be heard was the girl's slow and steady breathing. He had to focus more, if he didn't want to get them killed. He doubted the Aiel would be easy to deal with if they were found in here. Adjusting his collar anxiously, he went on. "I don't want to be standing around here all night."

Without looking at him, Aran'gar started to weave _saidin_. She didn't need to look at him, anyway; he half-thought he could feel her expression from where he was standing. At least that was the one thing they had agreed was safe before coming here. Neither of them thought there could be another _saidin _channeler within a hundred miles of Cairhien.

Through the Gateway Aran'gar created, Osan'gar could see the same wall that he knew lay on the other side, had he gone to look around it. The same wall, yet slightly different. It seemed to shimmer and flicker in a barely noticeable way, but unnerving once you knew it was there, and Osan'gar had already known it was there. He recognized _Tel'aran'rhiod_ easily enough, and again he wondered if this really was such a good idea. Knowing what Aran'gar would do if he tried to back now still wasn't enough to prevent him registering objections. "Are you sure this will work?" he said for the twentieth time that night. Aran'gar paused in front of the Gateway and turned to him.

"Of course," she answered, the same way as she had already, but this time she did not smile. "I thought you wanted to hurry up and get it over with?" She didn't sound entirely confident, and Osan'gar could hardly blame her; what they were planning to do was not especially safe or wise, even for them. People had died in _Tel'aran'rhiod_, or at least, so it was thought if never proved; those who entered in the flesh and failed to return were simply never heard from again. There were many dangers in the Unseen World.

Hesitantly, Osan'gar followed her through the Gateway. Aran'gar closed it behind them. Now, the whole room looked darker, odd in a way Osan'gar couldn't articulate exactly. He never could. The sleeping girl was still there, though; probably enough proof that she had the Talent. Anyone with a little power could be trained to enter _Tel'aran'rhiod_, and affecting it properly required skill, but even in the Age of Legends, it was rare for someone to be born with the ability to see the future through Dreams, even if the Dreams often made little sense, even to the one who saw them. Not even Moghedien had had that particular skill, and she was more powerful in _Tel'aran'rhiod_ than anyone else Osan'gar had ever seen. Yet skill it was; according to Shaidar Haran, there were many others in this camp, all Aiel, with similar abilities, but this one had been injured when she was foolish enough to incur Lanfear's wrath, and besides, none of them were as powerful or as 'pliable' as this one. The Myrddraal had smiled unpleasantly when it said that; Osan'gar did not want to know what it had meant.

But the girl was still there. Not just anyone could enter _Tel'aran'rhiod_, not for any long than a few seconds, anyway. Now they had to enter her dreams unnoticed, a task in itself, although Osan'gar was convinced that melatonin would help with that. It did have some side effects, of course, but he had been very exacting with dosage. Nobody had ever understood the workings of the human body as well as he did, in this Age or any other. And if the girl suffered some discomfort as a result of this, then what difference did that make? It mattered little to Osan'gar. As long as they did this part correctly, she would have no reason to ever suspect anything had happened.

Osan'gar stood silently while Aran'gar reached into the dream, and a light seemed to expand from the figure, taking on form as it did so. Now Osan'gar could see shapes and colours within it, being pulled in with Aran'gar, while at the same time they both made sure they didn't get drawn too far in, for fear of being trapped until the girl woke. Without having the Talent of dreamwalking, it was considerably more difficult to do, but it could be done, if one was strong enough. Only dreamwalkers could enter the between space from which all dreams could be seen and manipulated.

Inside the dream, Osan'gar could see two figures sitting face to face amidst darkness. One was Rand al'Thor, which was little surprise; apparently the girl knew him well. The other was a woman Osan'gar didn't know, although he noted with interest Aran'gar's start of recognition upon seeing her face. They both wore expressions of pain on their faces, and Osan'gar could see that they were connected by two cords of pure darkness emanating from al'Thor's side. He wondered at them. One looked oddly like his own connection to the Great Lord, protecting him from the taint on _saidin_. The other was similar, but different in some way Osan'gar couldn't put his finger on. They were definitely different, though. They repelled each other, almost seeming to be fighting despite the fact they wouldn't touch each other.

Rand and the woman were focused absolutely on the cords, and Osan'gar could see that the black threads moving closer together, though they resisted fiercely. Sweat poured down the faces of the two figures, but they remained motionless. Osan'gar wondered how he could make them out against the blackness all around, and suddenly there was something else in the dark. Other people, racing towards the two figures from every direction. Somehow he knew that they had to reach al'Thor before the cords touched, although he didn't know what would happen if they failed. Something… momentous. But the figures seemed to be slowing. Osan'gar could only just make them out, even though he could see the two in the centre perfectly well; the others seemed almost to be a part of the dark surrounding everything. Yet he could see that they were slowing, or being blocked by obstacles just out of Osan'gar's vision.

One of the figures finally got close enough to the centre to stop what was happening. Osan'gar looked with shock on the face that did not see him, a face covered in triumphant glee. _His _face. But as the other Osan'gar was about to strike, the blackness seemed to rise up around him, around his face and throat. The man had just enough time to give a muffled cry before the dark swallowed him. The real Osan'gar stared, eyes wide as saucers. At least, he thought he was the real Osan'gar; he was not so sure anymore.

Through all of this, the man and the woman sitting on the ground had not moved at all. They barely seemed aware of their surroundings. All that mattered to them were the two cords, which were now so close, so very close together.

The black cords touched and –

Suddenly, Osan'gar felt as though he were falling backwards. He scrabbled around himself, trying to clutch at something, to save himself, but nothing was there. He almost screamed – and found himself looking into Aran'gar's eyes, a mix of annoyance and concern in them. He staggered, and looked around. He was no longer in the dream, not totally; he was outside, looking in. He could still see the figures, blurred and distant, but he didn't want to look. He focused on Aran'gar. "What happened?"

"You were getting pulled too far into the dream," she answered quietly. "I dragged you back out. What _was _that?" With a jolt, Osan'gar realised that she had been one of the other figures in the dream, though he didn't remember seeing any of the faces.

He shrugged, clasping his hands together. "I don't know. These dreams could mean anything. They may not even be the certain future, just one of a number of possible ones that may or may not come true." Ishamael had told him that. He had only listened at the time because you never knew when some information would be useful, and now that was being proved correct. "Attempting to interpret it would almost certainly fail, and then we would be chasing after an incorrect future and be surprised by the real one."

Aran'gar nodded. "So we should just forget about it," she said, but Osan'gar could see from the look in her eye that she planned to keep it in the back of her mind. For himself, he wasn't sure if he wanted to think about it, never mind remember it. But that wasn't important now. They still had their job to do.

"Yes," he muttered. "We've already wasted enough time. The way time moves here, it might already be morning." Aran'gar nodded again, and turned back to the dream. It was blank, now; the dream was over, and awaiting a new one. All they had to do was twist it towards their own needs. Of course, that was easier to say than it was to do.

"I wish Moghedien were here," he added under his breath, but Aran'gar evidently heard him, since she looked at him in surprise and more than a hint of scorn. "Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd hear," she said derisively, though she must have known what he had meant. He looked at her, but already she was looking into the dream, manipulating it. A man appeared in the void. Asmodean. Perhaps the girl would recognize him, and perhaps not, but if it yielded the clue they needed, then it made little difference.

"Are you sure this will work?" Osan'gar said again, and this time hurriedly clarified the statement before receiving a stock answer. "I mean, Asmodean died in the past, not the future. How will this show us anything to do with his death?"

"Well, the only event in the future that could possibly involve Asmodean is our discovering who killed him. Right?" Osan'gar shrugged, but assented. "So, the dream will show us something to do with that. Hopefully, that will give us enough clues to be able to discover the truth."

Osan'gar's brow furrowed. "But if we use the information we get from the dream to catch Asmodean's killer, then that future only came about because we saw the dream, but the dream would have showed us a future that wouldn't have happened unless we'd seen it, so…"

"Try not to think about it," Aran'gar interrupted, seeing where this was going. "As long as it works, who cares about whether or not it makes sense? Besides, I think something's happening, so be quiet and watch."

She was right. Other shapes and figures were appearing around Asmodean in the dream, although too faint to make out. Steeling himself, Osan'gar drew closer, trying to see. As soon as they had a single clue, they could leave, which he looked forward to. But the figures were still murky. Hardly surprising, really; neither of them had expected it to be easy. Closer still. Now he could see two people in red; one male and one female, he thought, though he wasn't certain at this distance. Closer still. How far had he been in the other dream? It had all seemed real, then. Now it was blissfully distant, but he needed to get closer. He needed to see.

He stopped slowly, and Aran'gar paused beside him. They could see now. The ever-present darkness still clouded his view, though. He thought it must represent the Shadow; it had seemed much thicker around himself and others of the Dark than around al'Thor and Lightfriends. It didn't seem to stick to Asmodean as much, though. Well, he was a traitor, but Osan'gar had thought he still clung to the Shadow in secret. And indeed, there were still threads connected to him, though he was trying to shake them off. But if he was right, then what had it meant when those shadows had overpowered him and… Osan'gar shuddered to think of it again. Best to forget about it, he thought.

The clearest figure in his eyes other than Asmodean was a familiar looking man, tall with dark hair, dark face and a hooked nose that slightly marred his otherwise handsome features. At first Osan'gar had thought it was Demandred, but it couldn't be; the shadow only barely touched this man, but Demandred would surely be as entrenched in it as Osan'gar himself. He could not believe Demandred would be a traitor. Yet this man, while still touched by the darkness, was still free of it. Perhaps a Darkfriend, and perhaps not. Maybe neither. Osan'gar and Aran'gar watched the man, but he just stood there, looking for something. Two more figures appeared from the shadows, and Osan'gar started dry-washing his hands again when he realised they were himself and Aran'gar. The tall man pointed to the two other figures, a look of pleading in his face. Osan'gar – the real Osan'gar – and Aran'gar looked at the figures, but their faces were blurred as the shadows swallowed them.

And Asmodean stood in the middle of all this, not moving, just clutching and shaking at the cords tied to him. And slowly, he too disappeared.

Osan'gar jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and saw Aran'gar, gesturing that it was time to go. "We've learned all we can here. No need to hang around."

"But what have we learned? What are we going to do now?" Osan'gar didn't want to linger here any longer than necessary either, but he didn't want to have to come back either, when they discovered they still didn't know enough. But Aran'gar shook her head.

"Now we do all we can do. Follow the tall man."


	8. Questions and Answers

**Chapter 8: Questions and Answers**

_I am not strong, yet perhaps I can help in some small way…_

– _Asmodean_

al'Lan Mandragoran rode through the countryside, calmly taking in the scenery. Mandarb went along the road at a slow trot, and Lan saw no need to hurry the horse. He was heading where he was due to a driving need in the back of his mind, but it would take a while to get there, and he did not want to tire his horse. He had already pushed it hard enough lately. He would make it to the next village before nightfall at this pace, and even if he didn't, it wasn't like he had never slept in his saddle before.

He watched the scenery intently, ready to pick out any sign of movement. He did not seem to be an obvious target for attack, but Lan never considered such reasons. His war was endless, would never end until his death. Until then, he was never going to let his guard down, since he wanted to put that particular event off as long as possible. He had many enemies, few friends and one love, and he wanted to be the first to know if any of those came looking for him.

Light, but he missed Nynaeve. He had never truly thought he could love anything until he met her. The thought of her was the only thing that kept him going, really. Why had Moiraine not passed the bond on to her? He suppressed that thought. The memories of what had transpired in Cairhien more than three weeks ago now were still painful. Thoughts of Moiraine still wrenched at him. And yet, he still could not truly believe that the woman he had known and protected for so many years was truly gone. No matter what he said about them both being soldiers in the same war, he had always believed in his heart that he would be the first of them to die. After all, he was a Warder and she was Aes Sedai. She surely deserved to have lived.

Shaking his head slightly, he turned his attention back to the road. He would fight the Shadow wherever he found it, whenever he could, and he could hardly do that if he was wrapped up in daydreams. He had no choice but to continue, and dwelling on the past would not change a thing.

Suddenly, a thin line of blinding light appeared in the middle of the road, paused a second, and then widened enough for three people to walk through abreast. Lan reined his horse in carefully and gave the hole in the air a guarded look. He was cautious, but he wasn't foolish enough to attack without knowing who his enemy was either. Nevertheless, he dismounted and drew his sword, staying focused on the two figures that emerged from whatever had appeared.

A woman came into view, shapely and beautiful. Lan tended not to notice such things – he only had eyes for Nynaeve, and not just because he knew what she would do if it were any other way – but he had to admit that this woman likely drew the eye of every male in any room she entered. She regarded him with a near regal condescension, but didn't seem to be immediately threatening. Neither did the man who followed her, a rather average looking fellow who seemed more apprehensive than anything. He eyed Lan nervously, glancing at his companion and rubbing his hands together as if trying to clean them. Lan sheathed his sword, but was sure to keep one hand on the hilt. At least one of these two could channel for certain; realistically, he didn't stand much of a chance if either or both of them attacked with the One Power, but there were ways of fighting anyone, if you knew how. And if you were willing to take chances.

The woman looked pointedly at the other, who shook his head. She sighed and turned back to Lan. "My name is Halima Saranov, and this is Corlan Dashiva. We would like to ask you some questions. Are you al'Lan Mandragoran?"

Lan stared back at her, wondering where this was going. He hadn't felt particularly conversational of late, with circumstances the way they were, but questions generally implied answers, and he wouldn't be surprised to discover this woman was Aes Sedai, which would cause all kinds of problems. She was not ageless, but then, she could be new; he hadn't recognized her, after all. On the other hand, he had never seen anyone step out of the air like that in all the years he had been around sisters, and that suggested Black involvement. Could they really be so foolish as to use such a weave right there where he could see, or to come so unprepared that they didn't ask his name first? He tightened his grip on his sword hilt. "That's me."

The woman – Halima – smiled, and took on a more authoritative tone. "We have reason to believe you were in or about the city of Caemlyn around three weeks ago. A man fitting your description, riding a horse that fits… your horse's description…" She faltered, but resolved to continue regardless. "…was seen by several people around that time. Would you care to explain that?" At this point, the man started urgently whispering to her, but she waved him away irritably.

"It may have been me." Lan speculated as to exactly where this was going.

"Did you meet with a gleeman named Jasin Natael while you were there?" Dashiva cut in, earning another annoyed look from Halima. At least this was starting to make some sense, though. It didn't tell Lan anything useful, like who these people were and what it was safe to tell them, but at least he could coordinate his answers to their questions now.

"I haven't seen him in months," was Lan's reply. It was perfectly true, as well. He had no idea what had happened to the man, though he had probably run off or something if he was being asked after. Maybe something more serious, for that matter; these people seemed to have gone to some trouble to find him, after all.

Dashiva looked uncomfortable. "Are you quite sure?" he asked, ignoring the hard glare that Halima was steadily giving him. He tugged at his own collar nervously. "We've come a long way to find you, Master Mandragoran, and it was not easy to find you or discover that you may have the information we need for our investigation. You cannot realise the effort we have gone to, or how determined we are to end our search for truth." The grim look on his face suggested that their troubles might not necessarily be of their own devising.

Despite the look on her face, Halima's words seemed to echo her partner's, and her voice took on a similar, near pleading tone. "If you have anything to tell us that can help, anything at all, please do. It's as much for Natael as for us," she added, almost as an afterthought. Lan doubted she had ever met the man, from the way she spoke of him.

Lan doubted now that he could do as they asked, or even that he would or should had he been able to. He was tiring quickly of this. Would they attack him, if he tried to force them to leave him be? They would probably attack him anyway, and kill him. He would take the risk. It was not as though he had anything to live for, anymore. "I can't tell you what you want to know," he said, dangerously, laying his hand back on his sword hilt with a practiced and very noticeable movement. "If you need to find things out so badly, I suggest you go and find out for yourself, and stop bothering me."

Halima looked at Dashiva; Dashiva looked at Halima. They seemed to be silently deciding whether or not this was really worth the effort, although Dashiva appeared to have a certain smugness about him that sharply contrasted with his earlier expression. Eventually, they reached an unspoken agreement.

"Well. We're, er, sorry to have bothered you, sir," Dashiva said with a nod and a small smile, both intended for himself. Halima had already turned away; wordlessly, she crafted an exit for herself and her partner, by the same means they had arrived. They neither looked at one another nor spoke as they left, although Dashiva's expression seemed more thoughtful than that of the woman.

Lan remounted Mandarb and rode away, with a tiny smile on his otherwise stony face. He had answered all their questions, and truthfully too, but he supposed he hadn't told them all that he could have done. But how else could they have helped them find who he was looking for? After all, it had taken him more than three days to reach Caemlyn in the end, and Asmodean had already disappeared by the time he had arrived.

* * *

"And _that_," Osan'gar commented, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "was an even bigger waste of time than your last idea. It took us a whole day to find that man, and it turned out he didn't even know who Asmodean was. We've made a lot of progress today."

Aran'gar ignored him. They were back in Caemlyn palace, having gotten past Rand again, who was more than a little reluctant to let them back in for some reason. They hadn't much of a choice as for their next move, though. It seemed that Lan fellow had been right; if they wanted to find out what had happened, they had to look for themselves. Unfortunately, the killer didn't seem to have left much in the way of clues, rather thoughtlessly in Osan'gar's personal opinion. If you were going to kill someone, you might as well be helpful to the poor people whose job it was to catch you.

She wasn't going to respond. Perhaps he had pushed her further than was wise recently, but Osan'gar wasn't going to back down for the moment. He changed the subject. "We must have been over every inch of this palace, and we've still found nothing. I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything for us to find."

That got Aran'gar's interest; knowing her, she had been thinking exactly that. "You're right. If the Great Lord himself doesn't know how to find Asm- Natael's killer," she quickly corrected herself, aware of who might be listening, although Osan'gar noted she didn't mind calling the Great Lord by name, "then I don't see how we're supposed to find it out for ourselves. This is hopeless. What can we do now?"

This wasn't exactly the reaction Osan'gar had been hoping for, although he hadn't really thought about it, he supposed. "It's not like we have much of a choice," he added hurriedly. "It would be more productive if we gone on with it rather than standing around complaining about it." To illustrate this point, he opened the nearest door – and came face to face with a tall, dark haired man, who looked at him with an startled indifference. Osan'gar opened his mouth, and closed it again. He had been about to ask the man who he was, but he already knew. There was no doubt. Standing before him was the man he had seen in the girl's dream. The one that had been the key to their finding Asmodean's killer. And just like the man in the dream, he reminded Osan'gar, in an odd way, of Demandred.

Behind him, he heard Aran'gar exhale. "Well, it looks like you were right," she said, only a touch of amusement in her voice; she was as surprised as he was. All three stood there, like statues, for a few seconds, just staring. Osan'gar's mind was reeling. The whole scene was insane; he had no idea what to do.

The man broke the silence. "Who are you?" His tone was arrogant and demanding, which was fortunate, as it got an immediate response out of Aran'gar, who repeated the question, directing it straight back.

"My name is Mazrim Taim. But nothing more than that is any of your business, I should think," he added with a sneer. His expression turned thoughtful for a moment, though. "You two were here before, weren't you?" He continued without waiting for their assent. "What are you looking for?"

Osan'gar quickly took control, while he could. "You know something about the death of Jasin Natael. Don't you? Were you here? Did you see something?" He could feel the tide turning. For the first time since this investigation, he really felt like they was getting somewhere, and he might only have one chance to capitalise.

Taim seemed taken aback by the sudden barrage of questions, but quickly regained his composure. "Maybe I did. And even if I did, why should I tell you? You really think you can fight me?" Seeing the intention on Aran'gar's face, Taim just smiled. "You aren't thinking of trying to use the Power, are you? You would have to be insane. I doubt you would get five feet before al'Thor came for you."

Aran'gar returned his smile. "You are no more capable of that than we are, in that case," she said, in a voice even more sultry to how she normally spoke. Osan'gar had been too distracted to realise the man could channel, but he supposed she had sensed something, for Taim snarled and fumed silently. "So unless you plan to fight us physically, I suggest you tell us exactly what you saw."

He quickly retreated back to his cupboard, so Aran'gar and Osan'gar followed him. He put up no resistance, in the end. Osan'gar thought the man would have told them anyway, but it made little difference; the important thing was they finally knew the truth. It was just a matter of hunting the killer, now.


	9. Where Angels Dare to Tread

**Chapter 9: Where Angels Dare To Tread**

_Sometimes, it is difficult to see the difference between oneself and one's enemies._

– _Asmodean_

The doors were locked and barred. No attendants ever came into Lord Brend's chambers, not now. There was a space for food and drink to be left, the finest meats and wines available, and where the empty plates and dishes were left to be collected. No one ever saw the meals be taken or come back, but then, no one ever watched. Lord Brend liked his privacy, and Lord Brend was obeyed. Only his fellow councillors ever saw him, and even then, that was rare. Even when Lord Brend did not attend, his orders were followed as though he were.

Sammael sat upright, examining the map on his wall with a fierce concentration. The maps and plans took up all his time, now; he'd rather be out in the field, leading the armies himself, but he knew it was unsafe to leave now. He'd heard of what was going on, from sources other than Graendal; someone was trying to get to him, he knew, and he would not be able to touch the Source in the field. He never took risks with his own safety. It was how he'd lived as long as he had.

Graendal was the only one of the Chosen he saw, now. He had made it clear that he would react poorly to any of the others showing up in Illian, and he meant it. Truth be told, he was not so certain of Graendal any more. He had a few tricks left up his sleeve that would hold her, but he wasn't sure how much longer it would last. And he needed her. For his plans to work, among other things.

He turned back to the map. The world looked so different from how he remembered it. It made it difficult to form plans, sometimes, but the good leader was the one who adapted to his new circumstances. Lews Therin had taken the coward's way out when he realised that he couldn't defeat the superior general, denying him the only glory left for him; he was not going to allow Rand al'Thor to do the same. It was all Sammael had, now, and he couldn't let it be taken from him. Now. If al'Thor was hiding in –

A line appeared in the air not far from him and widened quickly. Through it came a huddled Graendal, keeping her head down and moving fast, shooting glances behind her. Sammael regarded her curiously. It wasn't like her to act like this. He had known her to keep her wits about her when the walls were collapsing around her and lesser men and women were fleeing for their lives. She was composed now, in her own way, but it was obvious to anyone who really knew her that there was something very wrong, and Sammael really knew her. He wondered what was wrong, but he knew how dangerous Graendal was. He couldn't afford to let his guard down around her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, stepping away from her and seizing _saidin_. "Did I not tell you that you mustn't come here without arranging -"

"Be quiet, Sammael," she said shortly, quickly closing the Gateway behind her. He stiffened at that, but it was a measure of her concern; she knew better than to speak to him like he was one of her pets. "I risked my life to come here for you, so I expect some gratitude."

"What do you –?"

"They are coming for you, Sammael."

Instantly he knew what she meant. He had been able to read between the lines of what she was telling him about the meetings he had started to avoid, and he knew what it meant. The other Chosen would take any excuse to take down the strongest of them, and they knew Sammael was the only one left who could be named Nae'blis. Even that fool Demandred knew it. "Who are?"

"Aran'gar and Osan'gar." Graendal took the time to adjust her dress while she was speaking; she was never too panicked for that. "They seem to think you have something to do with what happened to Asmodean, and when I told them I couldn't bring them to you, they attacked me. They are coming here."

So it was worse than he had thought. He had expected Demandred to come himself, or maybe one of the two lackeys he kept on him, but those two had always been two of the strongest, and Sammael was not so arrogant as to think that he could easily defeat them both by himself. If Graendal was here, though… "Asmodean? Nothing happened to Asmodean. I have no reason not to believe that he isn't still training al'Thor, waiting for the chance to destroy us."

Graendal's eyes widened and she stared at him. "Burn you, Sammael, now isn't the time for lies!" she screamed. She looked like she would burst into tears. Sammael stared back, in wonderment. "He is dead, dead and gone, and he won't be coming back! Are you so blind that you won't see? I'm trying to help you!"

"I don't understand. Truly I don't." What game was she playing? Still, he had to trust her. "Just calm down and tell me what's going –"

Another Gateway opened without warning across the room from them. He would have thought Graendal was leaving, had he not felt the _saidin_ being woven, impossible to miss with his senses in the heightened state granted by the True Source. Graendal left anyway, though, choosing the more direct route of smashing through the door with a flow of Air. The Gateway opened to allow through Osan'gar, or so Sammael assumed; he'd never met the man in person, but he couldn't think of anyone else it could be, from what Graendal had told him. And he had no choice but to trust Graendal, for now. She would repay the favour later, but for now, he followed her, ignoring the woman coming through the Gateway.

Osan'gar shouted something, but Sammael ignored him. He didn't care what those two wanted; they were insane, to be fooled by _Asmodean_, of all people. Asmodean wasn't dead. He knew it was the only explanation for the whole stupid mess. Unless…

"Come on!" Graendal called from the end of the corridor, and at the same time, a male voice behind him shouted, "No!" Then the ceiling behind Sammael was blasted with a huge fireball, and started to collapse on him. He instinctively threw himself towards Graendal and rolled with the impact, remembering his days as an athlete. It also put him in mind of a few close calls he'd had in the past. Graendal was right, apparently; someone was trying to kill him, but he somehow doubted she'd warn him of that out of the kindness of her own heart. What was she up to?

She hurriedly beckoned him to follow her around the corner, and he wondered why she was leading him around his own palace as if he did not know the way. Still, he followed, after darting a wary glance behind him. The walls had caved in and blocked the corridor, but he didn't think that would pose much of an obstacle to a determined attack. That thought spurred him on to run, and he would have called for guards had he thought they would have helped. But he knew he could only rely on himself.

Graendal had disappeared. When he went round the corner she was nowhere to be found, although there was a severed arm lying on the ground, with its owner whimpering nearby. Graendal was never a careful Traveller when she panicked. He sighed and headed on, still wondering just what was going on.

He eventually caught up with her in the hall where the Council of Nine met, a rather resplendent hall where she would normally have felt right at home. At least she had managed to compose herself again; he'd seen her go into hysterics before, although admittedly she'd generally been pretending, but if that was anything to go by, he didn't want her to do it here. Loud bangs and crashes from various directions along with the occasional scream showed that Aran'gar and Osan'gar were not doing well in their search. Sammael found himself idly considering how the rest of the Council were going to explain all this tomorrow morning when people started to ask why the palace had collapsed.

"Graendal!" She didn't respond to his call. "What's going on?"

"I'm trying to save your life, you idiot. They're trying to kill you, but I don't want them to." She turned to him and suddenly kissed him, pressing herself against him, and Sammael almost reeled back in shock. This he _wouldn't _believe! But then she pulled away and looked into his eyes, and he _knew_. He wondered if she was trying to use Compulsion on him before realising that the mere act of having that thought probably meant that she wasn't. "Graendal, what is this –"

The door opened, and a stunningly beautiful woman came through, followed by the man he had seen earlier; Aran'gar and Osan'gar had finally got here. Osan'gar was saying, "- can't keep blowing up everything that gets in your way, my dear –" before he took in the room and fell silent, and Aran'gar's petulant expression turned to one of surprise and then anger. Sammael felt her channelling, and seized the Source himself, weaving an Air flow that caught her off guard and sent her flying into a wall. Osan'gar was prepared, though, and with an angry look he channelled flows of fire at Sammael, which he only just managed to avoid. Looking around, he saw that Graendal had disappeared again; for someone who was trying to save his life, she didn't seem to be around when he actually needed help. A door was closing, and Aran'gar had crawled through it. Realising what she was doing, Sammael went to stop her, but ran up against a wall of Air, hard.

Sammael staggered back, clutching his forehead, and turned to Osan'gar with a snarl. He could barely think as it was, he didn't need a headache too! The man looked nervous, as always, but he was the stronger in the Power… but he wasn't stronger physically. Sammael charged, cutting his way through the shields Osan'gar erected with the Power, trying to force a path to him. Now his foe started to look frantic, throwing everything he had into keeping Sammael away, but he wouldn't give up; he couldn't give up; he'd come too far to have his plans ruined now. He'd done nothing to anger the Great Lord, had he? Were they working for al'Thor, that they wanted to kill him? It didn't matter. Osan'gar might have gained a new body, but his reaction when Sammael finally laid a hand on him would have told him who it was really even had he not known. Osan'gar immediately lost his concentration and collapsed backwards with all of Sammael's weight on him, and Sammael pressed his forearm against his throat, until he started to choke. "Came here to try and kill me, did you? You'll wish you had never came when I'm through with you, you little –"

There was a sudden flash of light in his eyes, and he rolled off Osan'gar, groggily blinking and trying to work out what had happened. Looking up, he made out the shape of Aran'gar, standing over him and holding what looked suspiciously like a floorboard. She sneered. "You stupid fool. Do you honestly think we came here for you? We came here for the one we've been searching for all this time… and we found that person, just as planned."

Graendal struggled against the flows of Air that held her bound, just in range of Sammael's vision now he focused. "No!" she screamed. "You have to –"

"Shut up." The sound of Aran'gar's slap rang in Sammael's ears. "There's nowhere left to run, Graendal."

Osan'gar slowly got back to his feet and looked Graendal in the eye. "Give it up," he gasped. "We know it was you, Graendal. We know you killed Asmodean. All we want to know now is why."


	10. If These Walls Could Talk

**Chapter 10: If These Walls Could Talk**

_Ask a philosopher if you want to know why. Why can't dogs fly?_

– _Asmodean_

"You're _lying!_" Graendal screamed, trying to break through her bonds to hurl herself at Aran'gar, who stepped away from her with surprising tact. "Sammael, help me! Please!"

Sammael rolled onto his back, groggily holding his head, in no position to help anyone. He could barely even see the people standing around him; Aran'gar had hit him so hard he was probably lucky to be alive. Even so, he tried to pull himself to his feet, only to slump back onto the ground as Osan'gar watched him.

"It's no use, Graendal," Osan'gar explained, turning to where the captive continued to struggle. "The chase is over, and it was a merry one that you led us. But Aran'gar was right. There _is _nowhere left for you to go. We have enough proof that we could go to Shaidar Haran right now, and he would come after you… but we decided to come here first and hear your side of the story. You owe us for that much, frankly."

With a wail, Graendal's head fell forward onto her chest, tears rolling down her face. "How?" she mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Someone saw you." Aran'gar's voice held no remorse, and a sneer twisted her normally beautiful features into something Osan'gar could barely stand to look at. "A man named Mazrim Taim was hiding in the palace from an army that was searching for him. He was wandering around the corridors when he saw you and Asmodean, and he described it all to us. We know the truth." Somehow, Osan'gar thought, if Aran'gar was the representative of truth, then perhaps it wasn't as wonderful as it was said to be.

He walked towards Graendal. "There was other evidence too, of course. Who other than you or Sammael could have been so close to the palace on that day, out of the Chosen? You were the only one of the Chosen who failed to give a reliable alibi for your whereabouts. You were the one who tried to throw off our investigations with your games and tricks. You were the only one who was in communication with Sammael and could have warned him to stay away from us. Afraid he would let slip something the rest of us didn't know? But you managed to do that yourself. Everything pointed to you, Graendal. Taim just confirmed what we already suspected."

"Now what, then?" Graendal looked up and stared straight into his eyes, her face still covered in tears but with a hard edge of defiance about it. "You've proved your point. What do you want from me?"

"I'll be honest with you. You've intrigued me with everything that's happened, and, in a lot of ways, I suppose Aran'gar and myself owe our very existence to your action. So we decided to give you a chance to explain yourself to us, to tell us exactly what happened and explain everything we didn't understand already, so that we could finish this once and for all. After all, you are still one of the Chosen. Of course, if you'd rather explain it all to Shaidar Haran or the Great Lord himself, then we will, regrettably, be forced to accommodate your wishes."

"No!" she cried, and then, trying to mask her fear, she repeated, "No. I have said before that I want nothing to do with that thing, and that's what I'll stand by." She paused, appearing to be considering something, before she continued. "You want to know what happened? Fine, I'll tell you. The truth," she added, seeing Aran'gar's expression. "I swear it.

"It all started on the day before, when Rahvin called myself, Sammael and Lanfear to Caemlyn in the middle of the night for an emergency meeting. He said that he'd just received information from Cairhien that Rand al'Thor was preparing to move, but that he was attacking him in Caemlyn, not Sammael in Illian as had been originally planned. He would not tell us who had given him such information, other than that the source was definitely reliable; but that in itself wasn't unusual, as I doubt he would have trusted any of us with such knowledge. The back-up plan we had put into place for such an event had failed, and Rahvin was already moving an army of Shadowspawn into the city to defend himself in the usual, panicky way he did. We all agreed that we had no choice but to change the plan so that it would take place in Caemlyn, not Illian, and that Rahvin would have to be the one prepared for an attack, not Sammael. He didn't like it, as you might expect, but he agreed.

"On the morning of the attack, however, I Travelled to Sammael's stronghold in Illian. We had been plotting against the other two for some time, and I told him that now was the perfect time to act. I persuaded him that it would be best if we pulled our effort out of the plan and allowed Rahvin and Lanfear to deal with al'Thor themselves. After all, what had they done for us that we should risk our lives in their foolish plan? This way, we could better plan our own attack against him. If Rahvin and Lanfear were killed or captured, we could tell the Great Lord we had only just been able to escape ourselves, and if it was al'Thor who was taken, then we could explain that we were diverted by his other forces, like Asmodean. It all made sense to me, although Sammael needed a little convincing before he saw how much we would benefit from this course of action.

"What I didn't discover until much later was that Lanfear also did not follow the scheduled plan. Instead, she executed her own individual attack that morning at the docks in Cairhien, a foolish manoeuvre that resulted in her own death. Had I known what Lanfear intended, I might have considered changing things, but the news didn't arrive until after the event. Lanfear ruined everything with her stupidity, and I doubt I'll ever forgive her for that.

"Unaware of what Lanfear had done, Sammael and I went to the palace in Caemlyn when we were summoned, but instead of going straight to Rahvin as planned, we stayed away from him. He probably didn't even notice another Gateway being woven in the city, with all the power he was throwing at al'Thor. We disguised ourselves with a couple of servant's uniforms, so al'Thor would not wonder who we were if he found us, and set about getting as close to the fight as possible; after all, we could not easily plan our next course of action unless we knew the outcome of the fight. We soon found ourselves near a fountain and realised that we had lost ourselves. That palace can be like a maze. We went to retrace our steps, when Rahvin came charging around the corner, looking behind him. Quickly, I threw myself at Sammael and brought him down so that Rahvin wouldn't see us. Luckily, he just ran straight past us, and it was alright until I realised why he didn't notice us. Rand al'Thor came around the corner as well as we were getting up, and _he _saw us. Fortunately, he didn't recognise us, but that idiot Sammael actually tried to fight him! I had to pull him back, and then I saw the dragons on his arms. Realising some sort of reaction was probably expected of me, I pretended to faint, and kept hold of Sammael as I did so to stop him ruining everything. Al'Thor ignored us, thankfully, and carried on after Rahvin.

"Al'Thor chased Rahvin into _Tel'aran'rhiod_, and we followed as closely as we dared. We had to stay fairly far back, since they were throwing balefire all over the place, it was hardly safe to be there at all. I was tempted a couple of times to help Rahvin in some way, but I couldn't alert either of them to our presence, so I held back. We eventually found al'Thor wandering around looking for Rahvin, although where Rahvin had gone I have no idea. Sammael was just staring at him, the way he does, and so he didn't see what I saw; Moghedien, clearly captured by one of the Aes Sedai and searching for Rahvin as well. Added to the fact that Lanfear was still missing, I realised something was seriously wrong and went to attack, but they blasted a massive flow of Fire at him. It almost burned me, and I was some distance away, so I can only imagine what it did to Rahvin. That was when al'Thor and Sammael finally realised where Rahvin was, and al'Thor killed him with balefire. After that, I wasn't going to stay there; I opened a Gateway and dragged Sammael through, before he tried to kill al'Thor again or something.

"Once we were back in the corridor, I told Sammael that it wasn't safe for us to stay if al'Thor was in control, and that we should go. I asked him if he would see if he could find out what had happened to Lanfear, but said I couldn't come with him, because I had to have a meeting with Moghedien. As you probably know by now, that was a lie. Sorry, Sammael," she added to the prone figure that still had barely moved on the floor, "but you know as well as I do that a secret is only as secret as the number of people who know it, no matter how much you're willing to trust those people. Rahvin didn't make it common knowledge, but there was evidence in Caemlyn palace that tied the two of us to everything that had happened. I did not want al'Thor to be able to prove that we had any part of Rahvin's schemes, or else we'd become the next targets on his list, and I feared Sammael would already be a target given what had happened. I had to find that evidence and destroy it.

"So I stayed behind. There were very few people about at first, and I felt confident enough to walk around without fear of being seen. After investigation that took some hours, I eventually managed to track down a small private office Rahvin had kept, organised as ever, and proceeded to destroy everything I found in it. Standard procedure, or so it would be if I had my way; just because someone was foolish enough to get themselves killed doesn't mean others should die with them.

"Anyway, as I performed this necessary duty, the door of the office opened. I didn't even see who it was before I reacted, and that's the truth. I heard him say something, I don't know what, but I could tell from his voice that he had recognised me, so I just lashed out with the Power. I almost couldn't believe it when I saw who it was laying dead in front of me. Surely Asmodean could have defended himself against my attack? I don't think he was that surprised, if he had time to recognise me. Whatever the reason, he was dead, and I suddenly realised that the palace must have been flooded with al'Thor's entire entourage while I was distracted. Aware of the increased danger, I went to leave, and then stopped. The thought suddenly came to me; why has the Great Lord never ordered any of us to kill Asmodean? Why was he allowed to teach Rand al'Thor all he knew? What had Lanfear and Asmodean decided between them before Asmodean had been captured? And that's when I realised what all of us had been too foolish to work out. Asmodean must have been given some plan, possibly involving Lanfear, by the Great Lord himself! Why else would we be told nothing about Asmodean's whereabouts or activities, given no orders to attack or even try to capture him for a traitor? We all know that the Great Lord sometimes gives orders secret even from the other Chosen. Asmodean must have had his orders. I don't believe Asmodean would be brave enough to betray the Great Lord, whatever Lanfear said, and despite anything the rest of you might believe. I decided to hide the body back at my palace in Arad Doman and not tell anyone about what had happened until I knew more, and resolved to find out what Lanfear knew.

"But by the next day, I discovered Lanfear had died, and with her died my chances of ever knowing if Asmodean really was crucial to one of the Great Lord's plans. It struck me that the Great Lord might be just as angry with whoever killed Asmodean as he would be with whoever broke his order not to kill al'Thor. So, I did what I had to do to protect myself. I lied. And any of the rest of you would have done the same in my place.

"And yes, I told Sammael to stay away from the rest of you. I was afraid he would lose his temper and give something away in the heat of the moment, but I couldn't tell him how much danger I was in. So I played on his paranoia, just as my own paranoia was being played upon. And I never lied to him. The rest of you were plotting against him, as far as I'm concerned. I still believe that. And that's it, as far as I'm concerned. It's finally over. I've told you everything. And I want nothing more to do with it."

During this speech, Aran'gar's expression had grown more and more impatient, but Osan'gar was looking more and more fascinated. This entire episode was finally coming to a close, and now he did understand. He didn't think he really had before, but now he thought he did. "It is over," he said, as much to himself as to Graendal. "And now it's over, you can come with us back to Shayol Ghul, and let Shaidar Haran hear your story."

He reached out to touch her, but she recoiled, as far as her bonds would allow. "No! I won't go. You can't make me. None of this is my fault!"

"It doesn't matter whether it's your fault or not," said Aran'gar. "You still did it. You can make up whatever excuses you like, and it won't make any difference. You killed Asmodean. Whether the Great Lord chooses to punish you like you think, or rewards you for killing a traitor, is for you to find out when we get there. But we've spent weeks hunting you, and we aren't about to let you get away now."

"Easy for you to say. You know I'm right, Aran'gar. Everyone does. You just want to see me suffer because you're sadistic. Do not think for a second I have forgotten what happened to make you hate me so much." She turned to a rather confused Osan'gar, who was wondering what all that was about. "But you realise what's going on, don't you, Osan'gar? You listened to everything I said. I saw you. You can help me. Just let me go. I won't bother you again, you probably won't even hear from me again, I swear!" All the last words came out almost faster than Graendal could say them.

Osan'gar looked at her, wondering just what her game was, and then at Aran'gar. Whatever the reason, Graendal was right; Aran'gar did hate her, although he couldn't ever recall any reason why that should be. Then again, he couldn't remember too many specific events from his old life. "No. We have to carry out the Great Lord's wishes. You have to be brought to him."

"You can't!" Somehow, without Osan'gar realising it, he had allowed himself to drop Graendal's bonds enough for her to drop to her knees and reach out to him, pulling him towards her. He did not resist. "Please. I'm begging you, Osan'gar. I'm begging you."

He looked at her face, and too late, he saw her lips twitch.

Aran'gar went down first, before Osan'gar could give a warning; he tried to turn around, but that only caused him to receive his blow to the temple instead of the back of his head. It impacted the floor as he fell, causing pain to explode into his head with a force that felt as though he was being crushed. Dizzily, he tried and failed to move his head, instead emitting a groan. He could see Aran'gar lying face down on the floor. She wasn't moving. He wasn't moving much either, but at least he seemed to be conscious.

Graendal's feet entered his field of vision as she walked across the floor to his assailant. "Thanks," she said. "I had to keep them talking for a bit. You could have made it here sooner, if you really wanted me alive."

"I did," said Mesaana's voice, and Osan'gar let out another groan. They'd been tricked, of course. He'd known that there was something wrong, but he'd ignored it because he thought he knew the truth. And Aran'gar still wasn't moving.

There was a rustling sound, almost as if two women were pulling a rather bulky, dazed man to his feet, and Mesaana said, "The three of us need to get out of here. The Great Lord won't be happy once he finds out what happened here. You said you'd have everything planned, and you had better live up to your word. Don't forget who stuck her neck out for you."

"Of course I haven't," Graendal's voice replied over sounds that seemed to indicate that Sammael was coming to. "Everything's ready and waiting. We're safe now."

Osan'gar felt the blackness coming to him, and as he passed out, the last thing he saw was Aran'gar's body, still unmoving.

**- THE END –**

A/N: 'What do you mean, "The End"? You can't leave them lying unconscious like that!' I hear you cry. Can and just did, I'm afraid. This may only be the end of part one, though, depending on whether or not I decide to write more about what happens after this, but I told myself that once I reached the point where Asmodean's killer was revealed and the killer's motives were explained, I'd stop. I'm leaving it open for the sole reason that I might what to write another part to it eventually, but I'm already woefully behind on things like Forsaken Tales to go beyond my original plans here. Hopefully I'll finish the story properly sometime in the future, but for now, the end means the end.

Oh, and to Damon-Elaet; Last time I checked, the reviews area was a place to critique writers and offer constructive criticism, not free advertising space (that doesn't work anyway). I'd be less annoyed if you hadn't left virtually identical messages on pretty much every WoT fic on the first page of the list, every single one of them being reviews of the first chapter which screams "I DIDN'T READ THIS STORY!" to me. I hate to end on a rant, but there it is.

Anyway, watch this space; I'll probably write a sequel some day. Until then, if you see Graendal, feel free to make a citizen's arrest.


End file.
